Nurturing Dreams: Collected Essays on Architecture and the City

“Maki’s elegant essays blend intellectual autobiography, a distinguished insider’s view of the development of postwar Japanese architecture, and insightful theorizing on architectural and urban form. At a moment when major projects by Maki are making their appearance in the United States, the publication of these essays in collected form is particularly timely and welcome.” —William J. Mitchell, Program in Media Arts and Sciences, MIT, and author of World’s Greatest Architect “In part a sensitive memoir of the cities of his childhood and youth and in part a mature reflection on the triumphs and limits of architecture and urban planning in the late modern world, this collection of lucid essays by the distinguished cosmopolitan architect Fumihiko Maki testifies to the fact that today we are all citizens of the same world, moved by very similar spiritual pleasures and by equally comparable environmental threats.” —Kenneth Frampton, Ware Professor of Architecture, Graduate School of Architecture, Planning & Preservation, Columbia University Fumihiko Maki is one of Japan’s most prolific and distinguished architects, in practice since the 1960s. His works include projects in Japan, North and South America, Europe, and Asia. He received the prestigious Pritzker Architecture Prize in 1993. Among his current works in progress are the World Trade Center Tower 4 in New York City and the Media Lab Extension at MIT.

N U RT U RIN G D RE AMS

architecture

NURTURING DREAMS Collected Essays on Architecture and the City Fumihiko Maki edited by Mark Mulligan foreword by Eduard Sekler

NURTURING DREAMS CO LLECTED ES S AY S O N A RCHI TECTURE A ND THE CI TY

MAKI

Golgi structure 1967

Printed and bound in Spain

The MIT Press Massachusetts Institute of Technology Cambridge, Massachusetts 02142 http://mitpress.mit.edu

FUMIHIKO MAKI EDITED BY MARK MULLIGAN FOREWORD BY EDUARD SEKLER

Born in Tokyo, educated in Japan and the United States, and principal of an internationally acclaimed architectural practice, celebrated architect Fumihiko Maki brings to his writings on architecture a perspective that is both global and uniquely Japanese. Influenced by post-Bauhaus internationalism, sympathetic to the radical urban architectural vision of Team X, and a participant in the avant-garde movement Metabolism, Maki has been at the forefront of his profession for decades. This collection of essays documents the evolution of architectural modernism and Maki’s own fifty-year intellectual journey during a critical period of architectural and urban history. Maki’s treatment of his two overarching themes— the contemporary city and modernist architecture— demonstrates strong (and sometimes unexpected) linkages between urban theory and architectural practice. After writing about his first encounters with modern architecture and with CIAM and Team X, Maki describes his studies of “collective form,” the relationship between cities and their individual buildings. His influential essay “The Japanese City and Inner Space” traces characteristics of the Japanese city from the Edo period to contemporary Tokyo; his consideration of Japanese modernism begins with a discussion of “the Le Corbusier syndrome” in modern Japanese architecture. Images and commentary on three of Maki’s own works demonstrate the connection between his writing and his designs. Moving through the successive waves of modernism, postmodernism, neomodernism, and other isms, these essays reflect how several generations of architectural thought and expression have been resolved within one career.

978-0-262-13500-9

281445-MAKI-NURTURING-DREAMS-COB.indd 1

21/8/08 10:00:42

NURTURING DREA MS

Nurturing Dreams Col l e c t e d E s s ay s o n Ar chi te ctur e and the Ci ty

F umih ik o Mak i edi ted b y Mar k Mulli gan for eword by Eduard Sekler

Th e M IT Press  C am bri dge , M a s s a c h us e tts  Lon don , E n gl a n d

© 2008 Massachusetts Institute of Technology All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher. MIT Press books may be purchased at special quantity discounts for business or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected]​.edu or write to Special Sales Department, The MIT Press, 55 Hayward Street, Cambridge, MA 02142. This book was set in Bembo and Helvetica Neue by Graphic Composition, Inc., Bogart, Georgia. Printed and bound in Spain. Library of Congress C ­ ataloging-­in‑Publication Data Maki, Fumihiko, 1928–­   Nurturing dreams : collected essays on architecture and the city / Fumihiko Maki ; foreword by Eduard Sekler.     p. cm.   Includes bibliographical references and index.   ISBN 978‑0‑262‑13500‑9 (hardcover : alk. paper)   1. Maki, Fumihiko, 1928– —Philosophy. 2. Architecture. I. Title. NA1559.M24A35 2008 720—dc22 2007045947

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

to Misao, Midori, and Naomi

CONTENTS



F OR E W O R D B Y E D UA R D S E K L E R



ED I T O R ’ S NO T E

I N T R O D UCT I O N

2

1

FO RM AT I V E Y E A RS



F O R M AT IVE Y E A R S

2

v i ii

xiv

10

CO L L E C T I V E F O RM

C ollect iv e form : A p reface

40

I N V E S T I GAT I O NS I N CO L L E CT IVE F O R M

44

T I M E A ND L A ND S CA P E : CO L L E CT IVE FOR M AT H IL L S IDE T E R R A C E

68

3 ON T H E C I T Y

C I T Y A ND M O D E R NI S M



MY CI T Y: T HE A CQ UI S I T I O N O F M E NTA L L A N DS C A PE S

82 90



AM E R I CA : HI GHWAY S , D E TA CHE D HO U S E S , A N D S KY S C R A PE R S



T HE D R AW I NG CA L L E D B R A S ÍL I A



N O T E S O N UR B A N S PA CE

96

110

118



SPA CE , T E R R I T O RY, A ND P E R CE P T I O N



R E F L E CT I O NS O N HA RVA R D ’ S 1 9 5 6 UR B A N DE S IG N C ON F E R E N C E



T HE J A PA NE S E CI T Y A ND I NNE R S PA CE



T H E K A Z E - ­N O - ­O K A CR E M AT O R I UM

130 140

150

168

4 ON A RC H I T E C T S A N D A RC H I T E C T U RE

T H E L E C O R B U SIE R S Y N D R O M E : O N THE DE VELO P MENT OF MODERN



MA K I NG A R CHI T E CT UR E I N J A PA N



T OGO M UR A NO

A R CHI T E CT UR E I N J A PA N

180 194

204



ST I L L NE S S A ND P L E NI T UD E : T HE A R C H ITE C TU R E OF Y OS H IO TA N IG U C H I



O N T HE I ND US T R I A L V E R NA CUL A R



T HE R O O F AT F UJ I S AWA

230

238



O N UNIV E R S A L I T Y



AR CHI T E CT UR A L M O D E R NI T Y A ND T H E C ON S C IOU S N E S S C A L L E D

250

T HE P R E S E NT n o tes and credits



notes

262

O R I GI NA L P UB L I CAT I O N D ATA

PHO T O CR E D I T S

256

272

AC K NO W L E D GM E NT S

274

270

216

F o rew o rd

It is a rare privilege to introduce a book that is significant as a source of inspiration and authentic historical information about a period of tremendous global changes: the second half of the twentieth century and the beginning of the ­twenty-­first. The work is written by a distinguished practitioner in architecture and urban design during this period whose observations and challenging thoughts are relevant beyond the confines of a single culture, just as his creations have touched the lives of people in many countries. In Tokyo, for example, an architect of a younger generation recently said about Fumihiko Maki, “the majority of our generation’s urban experience of the last four decades in Tokyo took place in his buildings.”1 The title Fumihiko Maki gave to his book, Nurturing Dreams, can have different meanings for different people. He probably intended the title as an invocation of something desirable in the future, as in “I have a dream of. . . ”. Nurturing dreams, however, may also refer to the “bringing up” of dreams—either in the sense of giving them a good upbringing, or in the sense of bringing them up from a place where, according to psychoanalysis, they have been lying suppressed in some depth. In all cases something positive is expected; what one dreams of may actually happen, or an experience may become so fecund when implanted and brought up in the mind that dreams can originate from it. How this happened in young Fumihiko’s case might be guessed in the light of hints the author gives about his early youth, a childhood he has remembered fondly throughout his life. He describes growing up in a hilly residential district of Tokyo that still had many old trees and was not yet much touched by the forces that in the next decades would dramatically change all of the city. But such memories do not indicate that he was dreaming of something specific, nor do they express a strong retrospective nostalgia.

Instead, Maki simply recalls how he admired the large, modern foreign ships that he saw during visits to Yokohama with his parents. He also remembers how he visited the architect Kameki Tsuchiura, who lived in a modern house that was white, not gray or brown like most neighboring dwellings. The building impressed young Fumihiko strongly because of its spatial treatment and the use of steel and glass. Thirty years later, during a study tour of Europe, he noted that a railing in the Tsuchiura house was “strikingly similar to the railing of the stairwell in Duiker’s Zonnestraal Sanatorium.”2 This proves not only that from the beginning he was a very sharp observer, but also that one element of his dreaming was the wish to be modern, whatever that meant. The present collection of writings demonstrates time and again his desire to clarify what the concept of modernity denotes for an individual and the city at the present time. In one of the late essays, he makes it clear as a pragmatic idealist that, in his opinion, it is essential for a city to offer “opportunities for nurturing dreams. Dreams give meaning to our very existence in the city.”3 Fumihiko Maki’s essays are part of a tradition: many architects and urban designers have accompanied their professional work with texts. The nature of these texts is quite varied: most frequently they are scholarly or didactic treatises and autobiographical reports; they may be descriptive and critical, ­theory-­oriented, programmatic, propagandistic, even polemical. Usually they have been accepted with greater attention when coming from an author backed up by an impressive record of professional achievement, as is the case with Fumihiko Maki. His collection of texts is sui generis. Despite some important personal recollections about his teachers such as Josep Lluis Sert and Kenzo Tange, as well as architectural contemporaries like the Metabolists and Team X, he is not as amply autobiographic as Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan, or Richard Neutra; nor does he produce something in the nature of a descriptive illustrated overview of his entire œuvre. Rather, one reads a selection of essays the author considered relevant because they deal with issues that concerned him from early in his career until today. This is borne out by the fact that the texts are not arranged chronologically but in groups that indicate the author’s priorities among issues. Many of the texts give the impression that they were written to clarify the author’s own thinking about some key concepts that he revisited time and again, some were records of observations and their interpretation, others are meant to assist in understanding a building or project and the author’s design method. Since he taught at a number of important universities, certain pieces may have been

FOREWORD

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written with a didactic intent, though clearly many essays were also meant generally to discuss issues that affected the life of citizens as a consequence of what happened in architecture and the city. From antiquity through the centuries, architects have been expected to know more than just what was needed to master both the art and technology of building and the engineering skills of their time. Thus the Roman architect Vitruvius wrote some two millennia ago: An architect should be also talented and docile in acquiring knowledge. Because neither talent without knowledge nor knowledge without talent can produce a perfect master. He should be a good writer, a skillful draftsman, trained in geometry, know a good deal of history; he should have listened diligently to the philosophers, understand music, be not uninformed about medicine, know how to deal with legal decisions, and be informed about astronomy and the laws of the heavens.4

It is striking to discover how well this description of a good architect compares to a contemporary description obtained when I assembled the results of an inquiry I carried out some years ago. I asked highly respected architects what, in their opinion, were the qualities typical for a successful architect whose work was of high quality. Though they were expressed in various ways, the answers were remarkably similar in essence: one has to be up-­to‑date regarding all information relevant for one’s work; one must have the capacity to recognize problems clearly and to analyze them in a manner conducive to arriving at a solution where a synthesis of all relevant factors is achieved; in addition, one must have sufficient willpower, motivation, and firmness of character to make sure something is carried through. Above all, however, one must have talent, which in this case means a mixture of visual capability, a strong feeling for space as a medium, and creative imagination.5 Maki’s œuvre and the essays collected in this volume bear out how closely he belongs to the Vitruvian tradition as regards an architect’s ideal qualifications. Using today’s terminology, one would describe him as talented and desirous of learning; a good writer who makes beautiful drawings and masters geometry, too; and as one who knows a good deal of history and is interested in keeping up with the latest philosophical trends and matters of health. Surely, he has enough experience with decisions by lawyers. He also perfectly fits the contemporary

x

specification for a good architect quoted above. In addition, however, Maki brings a special capacity to his work that enables him to have valuable insights about the way we are affected by our culture in all we do. He can do this because he has lived, studied, worked, and taught in the two cultures of Japan and the West long enough to be more than a brief visitor in either of them. As a consequence, these essays contain material that should be of interest to a wide circle of readers. Architects and urban designers as well as theorists and students in these disciplines should profit from a careful reading, especially of those essays that explain the author’s methodical procedure in some detail. Scholars of historical disciplines such as cultural, architectural, and urban history, psychologists, sociologists, anthropologists, specialists of Japan studies, and philosophers also will find something of interest, even though these essays were not written by a professional scholar or scientist but by a thoughtful, ­sharp-­eyed architect and urban designer. As an artist in a typical Japanese manner, Maki prefers understatement to exaggeration, especially when dealing with the core, the innermost information about a crucial issue. If one reads this book as a collection of individual essays only, one will miss its point—that would be like inspecting carefully individual tesserae of a mosaic but failing to see the picture that their totality forms. In Maki’s case, this picture, begun in the mid-­1960s, is not complete yet, since happily more essays may be expected—for example, in connection with recent designs. But the important outlines of the image are clearly recognizable. They describe a solidly structured theoretical framework that has enabled Fumihiko Maki to succeed where so many of his contemporaries have failed; he worked out an approach to modernism and the city in which fundamental positive elements of modernism were saved and creatively rejuvenated without a retreat to ­retro-­utopia or stylistic acrobatics, relying instead on a mastered technology, the “strength and nobility”6 of urban space, and the possibility of seeing the present and the past integrated with the future. Basic motives in the picture’s composition are also a profound respect and care for the human beings who are affected by a design and a comparable attitude regarding nature. Both these motives are beautifully apparent in two projects, one from the beginnings of his design career and one from three decades later: Hillside Terrace and the crematorium on the “Hill of the Winds” (Kaze-­no-­Oka). Hillside Terrace was built in six phases between 1967 and 1992. My wife and I visited the project early in the process of its genesis. At that time we did not realize

FOREWORD

xi

its importance for the architect’s research about collective form, but we immediately noticed the positive qualities of the place: the way the buildings responded to the contours of the hilly site and incorporated some natural green, the human scale, spatial richness, brightness, and a friendly atmosphere—in short, we felt this is a place where it would be pleasant to live. From Fumihiko Maki’s essay about Hillside Terrace, I learned that some members of the architect’s family now live in Hillside Terrace and that he frequently visits there. “Over time,” he writes, “I have come to think of the buildings I have designed there as extensions of myself.” There is nothing better than this an architect can say. The 1997 Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium is very closely embedded in the surrounding landscape; it even seems partially to grow out of it. The group of elements that make up the building on the brow of a gently sloping hill are characterized by a simplicity of geometric forms and materials that lends great dignity to the ensemble. The bereaved family and friends, once they have reached the building, are softly guided through a sophisticated sequence of spaces to the various areas where the last rites are performed until the climax is reached in the funeral hall. In all the rooms used for ritual purposes, the selection of natural materials, the reticence of form, and the extremely careful use of natural light combine to create a mood of serious solemnity in an architecture that in its powerful simplicity is as truthful as some early Romanesque churches. This and the proximity of nature’s unending cycle of death and renewal combine to create an experience where, as at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and the Woodlands Cemetery and Crematorium in Stockholm, sadness does not entirely preclude consolation. Nurturing Dreams presents a stimulating wealth of valuable information and observations in a straightforward way while you are looking over the shoulder of a great designer. Beyond this, however, there are also profoundly thoughtful, even poetic, moments when this book may take you to unexpected places in your thought. Eduard F. Sekler November 28, 2007

xii

Edit o r ’ s N o te

When I first met Fumihiko Maki, in the spring of 1990, I was an architecture student at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design completing my thesis work and nervously contemplating postgraduation employment. Having been a genuine fan of Maki’s architecture for years, I introduced myself after his lecture and—with the naive, ­nothing-­to‑lose self-­assurance of a Harvard student—proceeded to arrange a meeting with him the following day so that I could question him in detail about his work and his writings. Little did I imagine that within a few months of that conversation, I would be working in Tokyo as a designer at his office. During the six intense years I spent as one of two or three gaikokujin (foreigners) he employed in an otherwise ­Japanese-­speaking office of ­thirty-­some architects, I collaborated on the design and construction supervision of several projects, most notably the Tokyo Church of Christ (1995). Through firsthand experience, I learned not only about Maki’s precise approach to materials and detailing, for which he is justly famous, but also—and perhaps more unexpectedly—about the importance he placed on a strong urbanistic approach as the basis for architectural design. Nothing in my previous employment experience had prepared me for the depth of Maki’s investment in the intellectual life of his office. Having devoted many years to university teaching, Maki paid great attention to mentoring his young staff members. On those Saturdays when we were putting in extra hours on competitions, he would sometimes invite us to lunch, and there we would discuss architecture and enjoy his stories. My role at the office sometimes involved helping Maki prepare various texts in English. I enjoyed the chance to advise my mentor on how to express an idea most clearly in my native tongue, particularly for the insight it gave me into his

thought process. Maki always chose his words with the most precise attention to detail and nuance. Texts were written iteratively in successive drafts until the parts fit together smoothly and produced a precise effect—yet without losing a certain spontaneity. This process was completely in keeping with the gradual, evolutionary process by which he arrived at his refined architectural designs. After a few years of working on occasional writing and editing projects, Maki invited me to collaborate with him in writing a major new essay in English. “Space, Territory, and Perception” (included in this volume) was originally prepared for a conference at the University of Weimar, Germany. Though I eagerly dove into the theme and worked very hard on that text, earning a coauthor’s credit, I must admit here my feeling that the genius of the essay lies in ideas Maki brought to it from the start. Having enjoyed those earlier writing collaborations in Tokyo, I was delighted when, more than a decade after my return to Cambridge, Massachusetts (where I now teach and have my own architecture firm), Maki proposed to me the idea of editing a new collection of his essays to be published by the MIT Press. Intended as the definitive ­English-­language anthology of Fumihiko Maki’s most important writings, this book presents ­twenty-­one essays selected to appeal to practicing architects, to students and scholars of modern architecture and urban theory, as well as to a general audience of readers. The essays are drawn from a variety of sources—full references to each text’s provenance are found in a separate appendix for those who are interested—and together they reflect nearly a half-­century of Maki’s evolving interests and philosophy as architect, academic, and critic from the early 1960s up to the present day. Although a few essays were originally conceived and written in English, the majority were written in Japanese and then translated into English by Maki’s longtime friend and collaborator, Hiroshi Watanabe. The extraordinary skill that Watanabe has brought to bear on his translations, with equal attention to Maki’s precise meaning and to his uniquely poetic phrasing, has certainly made my job of editing a great deal easier. My guiding ambition as text editor has been to leave the essays in their original state as much as possible, particularly given the importance of the contemporary historical context to many of Maki’s arguments. However, in considering the experience of general readers, I decided at an early stage to allow three kinds of revisions that would give greater coherence to the volume, and for these I beg the indulgence of those purists who would have preferred an unedited form of anthology. First, nearly all time expressions appearing in the essays have been

EDITOR ’ S NOTE

xv

rephrased so that they make sense to the contemporary reader—a specific date is given, for example, in place of a phrase like “last year.” The fact that such relativistic time expressions have occurred frequently throughout Maki’s essays, particularly those contributed to magazines, shows that he has always been keenly aware of the timeliness of his thoughts. A second, more complex task has been to identify repeated accounts of Maki’s experiences as they appeared originally in multiple texts and to condense or delete those repeated instances without breaking the flow or meaning of each essay—a delicate task indeed, given the tightly wrought nature of his writing. Lastly, while retaining all original notes and bibliographic references that appeared in the original essays, I have also inserted additional references wherever the text seemed to demand it. I hope that, in spite of such well-­intended editorial intrusions, the unique cadence and rhythm of Maki’s prose will be immediately recognizable, and that his ideas will reach and inspire the reader as effortlessly as when they first appeared in print. Mark Mulligan

xvi

NURTURING DREA MS

I ntr o duc ti o n

Writing and designing are very different activities, but for me they have the same starting point: it is by thinking about architecture, the city, and contemporary society that I begin. Writing allows me to document a set of related thoughts at any given moment and to communicate them immediately to others. The process of designing a building might originate from a similar set of related ideas; a work of architecture, however, takes a long time to be designed and constructed, and once completed, buildings take on lives of their own. Over a building’s lifespan, the initial design ideas that generated it are constantly tested by changing uses, tastes, and priorities. Thus while designing, like writing, holds an enormous power to communicate ideas to people and society, the mode of perceiving these ideas is entirely different. Interpretation is frequently richer, more ambiguous and even problematic. As an architect in practice since the 1960s, I have designed a large number of works. Each of them has evolved as a response to diverse conditions, including pragmatic issues of site and program; questions of appropriate materials and technologies; responses to contemporary theoretical discussions; and readings of society’s less tangible psychological needs and desires. Still I wonder whether in the future my buildings—or those of any other architect—will, by themselves, be able to tell the full story of their genesis, of the cultural and intellectual climates from which they emerged. In response to this doubt, I conceived the notion of compiling a number of my own essays, documenting my own more-­than-­fifty­year experience of a critical period in architectural and urban history, into the present book.

There are two general themes to this collection of essays: one is the contemporary city, the other is the modernist philosophy of architecture and the diverse phenomena it has generated. Notions of the city—ranging from idealized organizational concepts to the very pragmatic realities of urban life—have long intrigued and challenged me at a fundamental level. The city has provided both my writing and my architecture with fertile soil from which ideas have grown. Two factors in particular have made my involvement with the city extremely close. One is my chosen profession as an architect, which confronts me on a daily basis with the numerous challenges of designing buildings in an urban environment; the other factor is my experience over the past seventy years living and working in Tokyo, one of the world’s most complex, fascinating, and continuously changing cities. The verdant Tokyo of my childhood, which still retained many traces of the great garden city known until 1868 as Edo, had been reduced to ashes by the end of World War II. Following Japan’s postwar reconstruction and ensuing rapid urbanization, ­present-­day Tokyo came into being as a great concentration of global capital, information, power, and desire. Few cities in history have undergone physical and social changes of such magnitude within a single century. As a result, Tokyo has created in its residents, including myself, distinctive feelings toward cities, both conscious and unconscious. In many old European towns, one encounters well-­preserved, almost ­fossil-­like environments ruled by silence. The city and its architecture make the past perfectly manifest and, by their unchanging reality, clearly suggest to residents what their own future will be like. No such continuity between past, present, and future can be felt in Tokyo, however; because of its radical changes in time and space, my own native city can often appear to me as an alien place. For an architect working in such an urban context, dramatic physical and perceptual changes necessitate a continual reconsideration and reinterpretation of the city. My perspective on cities is by no means exclusively based on Tokyo. Though I was born in Tokyo and lived there until graduating from university in 1952, I spent most of the following thirteen years abroad, mainly in the United States. Studying, teaching, and working in the States during this formative period of my life enabled me to experience American cities fully. From 1958 onward, I also had opportunities to visit cities and regions in Asia, the Middle East, and Europe.

INTRODUCTION

3

During the years spent living and traveling abroad, I began to adopt a relativistic perspective, one that compared Tokyo and other Japanese cities to cities in other parts of the world. In recent years, as information technology and globalization have narrowed some cultural gaps, and as opportunities for me to design buildings in North America, Southeast Asia, and Europe have increased, my views on the nature of the contemporary city and modern architecture have continued to evolve. I am increasingly aware of the unprecedented speed and scale of urban development today—particularly in places like China—resulting in ever more complex relationships between architecture and city form. A century ago, the architect’s scope of work was not nearly as complex as it is today. For progressive designers in the West, modernism developed primarily as a movement repudiating the nineteenth century’s eclectic, historicist architecture and embracing the rational functionalism demanded of the twentieth century’s new, technologically advanced society. Under such a narrow definition, modernism has over the years been equated with yet another historical style, one which a contemporary architect could accept, reject, or adapt to new circumstances. Indeed, much of the theoretical debate in architecture in the past half-­century has focused on literal or reductive readings of early modernism, its ideals and principles. More broadly speaking, however, modernist philosophy has continued to thrive and evolve in shaping our lives. To paraphrase the Mexican poet Octavio Paz, modernism can be seen as nothing less than an expression of how each human being intends to live his or her present; inevitably, therefore, there are a thousand modernisms for every thousand persons. Clearly, by using the word “present,” Paz is referring not to current fashions or trends but, rather, to the expression of what each individual believes to be the essence of the here and now. The sum total of those expressions might be said to constitute the spirit of the age. When discussing modernism, therefore, it is necessary to examine more closely this idea of the present—one so full of contradictions that it does not permit generalized interpretation. Inspired by Paz’s notion of modernism—and to clarify and validate how I choose to live my present as an architect—I have always been drawn to writing about the city and architecture (my own works and those of others). In this respect, I am fortunate to have been educated and to have practiced within Japan’s unique architectural culture, where writing has long been valued as an intellectual endeavor. The Japanese architectural world enjoys a free and open atmosphere, in

4

which theoretical or speculative essays are by no means entrusted solely to historians and critics. For example, in the 1960s Kenzo Tange wrote a critical book on the Katsura Palace. Recently, his former disciple Arata Isozaki—whose efforts to establish architecture as an intellectual discipline deserve special mention—has written a book offering his own interpretation of the Katsura Palace. And I, who also studied under Tange, have even more recently written a review of Isozaki’s book, which continues the thread of critical discussion in publication. The writings of Hiroshi Hara, Toyo Ito, Kengo Kuma, and the architectural ­historian­turned-­practitioner Terunobu Fujimori have also played an extremely important role in areas where architecture and social issues overlap. In this intellectual climate—which may seem closer to Europe’s than to that of the United States—architects are asked to write on many different occasions and from many different quarters. Commissioned essays are often opportunities to make public the architect’s opinions on various matters, particularly those related to themes with which he has been preoccupied in practice. Many of the essays contained in this book are ones that I wrote in response to such requests over a ­forty-­year period. This book is organized in four parts. The first two concern my own life experiences from the 1950s to the early 1960s, from my decision to study architecture to the opening of my professional office in Japan. Part 1 takes the form of a personal history, beginning with my first encounters with modern architecture in childhood and including my experiences studying and teaching in the United States; journeys through America, Asia, the Middle East, and Europe; participation in the ­avant-­garde movement called Metabolism; and encounters with members of Team X. Part 2 then focuses on a series of studies that I undertook during those early years on the relationship between architecture and the city, culminating in the 1964 publication of Investigations in Collective Form. It concludes with more recent reflections on those early studies, which, looking back now forty years, have continuously inspired and guided much of my work as an architect. In part 3, I turn my gaze directly to the city and present a group of essays that describe and analyze certain qualities of urban form, organization, and perception. Most of these essays were published originally in Japanese, and several appear in the current volume for the first time in English translation. “America: Highways, Detached Houses, and Skyscrapers” discusses the centripetal character of American cities and architecture. In “The Drawing Called Brasília,” I discuss the

INTRODUCTION

5

ambition concealed in a single line drawn in the architect’s sketch of the city—a line which inextricably binds the city and architecture together. “The Japanese City and Inner Space” emerged from a study into morphological and perceptual characteristics of the Japanese city that have survived from the Edo period into contemporary Tokyo. Part 4 returns to the theme of modernism—particularly the modernism of Japan—with which part 1 begins. In “The Le Corbusier Syndrome,” I consider Le Corbusier’s unparalleled influence on the emergence of modernism in Japan. In “Making Architecture in Japan,” I describe a number of qualities that have continuously characterized architectural production in modern times. Over the years, I have been asked to contribute my views on the works of several Japanese architects, and by including here two studies on the life and works of Togo Murano and Yoshio Taniguchi—two architects who offer perhaps the sharpest possible contrast—I hope to suggest the broad range of expression and design method in modern Japanese architecture. The last two essays, “On Universality” and “Architectural Modernity and the Consciousness Called the Present,” are reflections on what it is that, transcending special temporal or spatial factors, constitutes architecture. This collection of essays is intended to be a meaningful—if incomplete— presentation of thoughts on cities and architecture that I myself have seen and experienced over the past half-­century. Deliberately wishing to avoid making this book a commentary on my own architectural œuvre, I decided initially to keep such illustrations to a minimum. As this book developed, however, I began to doubt whether my initial statement—that writing and designing share a common starting point, a common inspiration—could be fully tested without making some reference to the design work that has occupied me these past decades. Without demonstrating clear relationships between writing and designing, the reader might ask, how could this book be distinguished as the work of a practicing architect rather than the work of a critic or historian? I have therefore decided to include images and critical commentaries on three representative works, following related essays in the later chapters. The Hillside Terrace complex, built between 1967 and 1992, is a response to what is for me an eternal question concerning the relationship between the city and its architecture—the symbiotic relationship of the whole and its parts. The Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium suggests how the expression of inner depth, or oku—a timeless characteristic of Japanese architecture and cities—might

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emerge within a work of contemporary architecture. Finally, the notion of an industrial vernacular developing in various regions amid globalization finds expression in the Fujisawa Gymnasium. If the examples given are not perfect realizations of the ideas behind them, I will ask for the reader’s understanding. In my attempt to demonstrate relationships, I will have drawn attention to the ways in which words and objects may overlap in the case of the architectural profession. For this reason I have chosen to give the book its particular form. More than a half-­century has passed since I decided to enter the architectural profession. Looking back, I see that experience and knowledge accumulated over the years have expanded like the rings of a tree around a number of key events and ideas, though some of what I learned or experienced in the past has been sloughed off or only imperfectly absorbed. Architectural designs and writings have punctuated my life experience at regular intervals like the seasonal budding of a tree, each giving life to new ideas. Naturally, some buds wither and die, but others develop into branches from which new buds will emerge; under the influence of external conditions, a branch may grow in an unexpected direction. And just as it takes many years for a tree to develop into its full form, a long time must pass before the shape of one’s life, or the survival of one’s ideals, can be perceived or judged.

INTRODUCTION

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F o r mat i ve Y ear s

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F o r m at i v e Y e a r s

Experiences in youth tend to leave a more powerful impression, because they are unanticipated and without parallel. As one grows older, experiences are incorporated into an already established intellectual system and therefore do not evoke such intense emotions. Instead, with age there is a steady accretion of experiences that evoke a quieter response. My relationship to modernism began with a youthful encounter, and since becoming an architect, I have seen both its good and its bad sides. It has been at times the standard by which to judge excellence; at other times a teacher by bad example. Experience of buildings, people, and literature gradually constructed an internal world in me, as in so many other architects. Fi r st E nco unter wi th Mo dern ism

I was born in the Yamanote district of Tokyo in 1928. The townscape in the district then consisted primarily of buildings in subdued brown and gray against a background of dark green. Most of the houses were of wood construction, storefronts were finished in cement plaster, and many large buildings such as office buildings, department stores, and theaters were ­pseudo-­Western-­style structures faced with stone or tile. The several white houses I happened to encounter therefore made a vivid impression, even though I was only a child at the time. It was not simply that they were white. There was something liberating and magical about them. The year of my birth was also the year Kunio Maekawa and Yoshiro Taniguchi graduated from the Department of Architecture at the University of Tokyo, the school from which I too was eventually to graduate. The 1930s were a period in

which they and others such as Sutemi Horiguchi, Junzo Sakakura, and Antonin Raymond at last introduced into Japan the architectural ideas of modernism represented by the Bauhaus and the Esprit Nouveau. Their works, however, were few in number and limited to certain areas, so I consider myself fortunate in having encountered a number of representative buildings of the era early on. My good fortune lay in the fact that, as a child, I was able to experience these buildings directly, as I would a new type of train or airplane, unfiltered by an understanding of the radicalism the architects advocated. My first actual encounter with a work of modern architecture took place quite by chance when I was seven years old. I accompanied a neighbor, Masachika Murata, on a visit to the home of the architect Kameki Tsuchiura, with whom Murata was apprenticing at the time. I recall the Tsuchiura House in Meguro as a simple white structure. That in itself was nothing unusual, since both Murata and I lived in houses that were white. But the multilevel space inside and the slender steel railing in the entrance area made a very strong impression on me as a child; the materiality of the glass and steel as perceived in that white space was completely new to me. From this and other modern houses that I subsequently visited, I sensed how exciting modern, white architecture must have been for young architects who were embarking on their careers at the time. In my childhood I also had a number of opportunities to go with my parents to see foreign ships enter the port of Yokohama. I would invariably dash from the wharf to one of the piers, and there in front of me would be these layers of decks and vertical masts and stacks, like lines and planes in a De Stijl composition. The cabins with their portholes were like capsule spaces, and the ­first-­class salon and dining room were decorated in splendid Art Deco design. The polished wood decks, the steel railings, the canvas stretched over boats, the white painted surfaces—each of these elements projected its own powerful materiality. The ship was a huge machine that constituted a far more powerful statement of modernism than any work of architecture. At e l i e r a n d La b o r ato ry: Center o f Cr eat ivit y

In the 1950s, Japan was rebuilding, still feeling the effects of the war’s devastation, while the United States was at its zenith as the world’s most powerful and affluent nation. I spent that decade studying architecture, first at Tokyo University

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and then in the United States. In Japanese universities, upperclassmen and graduate students pursue their studies in groups called kenkyushitsu (literally “research laboratories”) organized around individual faculty members. The Kenzo Tange Laboratory at Tokyo University had a number of outstanding graduate students and was engaged at the time in preparing construction documents for the Hiroshima Peace Center, which had been the subject of a competition. From the time of my graduation thesis and during the short time I spent in Tange’s kenkyushitsu until my departure for study in the United States, I was able to get a brief but intense exposure to Tange’s way of working on architectural and urban designs. Arata Isozaki and Kisho Kurokawa would also pass through Tange’s kenkyushitsu a few years later. The university kenkyushitsu’s sphere of activity was then officially limited to Japan, but Tange was already seeking to bring an international perspective to his laboratory’s work. Tange was only one of several architects who emerged in postwar Japan, but he was perhaps the most aggressive in testing out what was new. It was an exciting time for architecture globally, particularly in the United States. Exploration into new forms of architectural expression—through the use of new materials, curtain walls, and ­large-­span structures such as shells and tensile members—had been suspended for many years surrounding the World War, and was now being resumed at last. Eero Saarinen and Paul Rudolph were among the leading American architects of the time. Saarinen in particular had an approach to design very similar to that of Tange, and it is widely known that Tange and members of his atelier were keenly aware of Saarinen’s work. Looking back after the passage of several decades, I find that, in its readiness to test out new ideas, Tange’s kenkyushitsu had qualities of both the atelier of an

1.1 Interior of Kameki Tsuchiura House, Tokyo, 1935.

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artist and the laboratory of a scientist. The artistic side of design studies was then and is today well understood, but the scientific laboratory’s mode of investigation required the existence of issues that could be clearly tested and resolved. Of course, countless new issues emerge for architecture in every generation, but in comparison with the broad technological and societal issues of those postwar years, the issues under discussion today may appear quite specialized; seemingly few, with the possible exception of environmental sustainability, affect architecture as a whole. In parallel with this gradual trend toward dividing issues into specialist camps, as more experts view architecture as an autonomous domain of knowledge, the ­laboratory-­like kenkyushitsu format has gradually fallen into disfavor and disappeared from many architecture schools. I consider myself fortunate to have had the opportunity, however brief, to experience the excitement of scientific inquiry in the process of my design education. That is because the dual character of Tange’s kenkyushitsu—part atelier, part laboratory—revealed to me the strange, often paradoxical nature of design in architectural offices. The kenkyushitsu may simply have been a product of the times, but it has exerted an enormous influence on the way I have subsequently organized my own practice. Perhaps it was due to Tange’s influence that I began to understand that every architect must have an ideal approach to design, for that approach is in itself a work of design. The issue is always how to proceed from a blank sheet of paper to realization—that is, how to direct and influence group behavior in a concentrated and unique way toward a certain objective. I hold as my ideal an organizational structure in which the group, while centered around one person and one theme, is in a state of flux, pushed this way and that way by internal contradictions

1.2 Members of the Kenzo Tange Architectural Lab at Tokyo University meeting at his house (Tange sits with folded arms at left), 1960s.

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and conflicts of imagination. Decisions are gradually made on the basis of objective reasoning, as is necessary for the creation of something as concrete as ­architecture. Any discussion of architectural ideas must include an examination of how architecture is made. This is something I constantly sensed as, over the next thirty years, I saw at close hand how architects in Japan and overseas conducted their lives and produced their designs, and I continued to ask myself what the essential nature of modernity was. Se rt’s E x am pl e at Ha rvar d

Upon graduating from Tokyo University in 1952, I went to the United States to continue my architectural education. After studying at Cranbrook Academy for one year, I entered the Graduate School of Design at Harvard University in 1953. It was in that year that Josep Lluis Sert became dean of the school, while also assuming duties from Walter Gropius as Chairman of the Architecture Department and director of the Master’s Degree design studio. As one of sixteen members in Sert’s first class, I had the opportunity to receive his instruction directly, and that was how more than thirty years of cherished friendship with him began. By late September 1953, the days were already cool and the show of autumn foliage had begun in New England. In those years, the GSD was located in Harvard Yard’s Robinson Hall, and Sert’s office was in its southeastern corner. I vividly remember how, at our first meeting, his black suit and bow tie stood out against the white background of the room. As he came forward to greet me, an intense energy emanated from his short, stout figure, an energy somehow different from

1.3 Josep Lluis Sert, dean of the Harvard Graduate School of Design, 1953–­1969.

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that of an American. In rapid succession he asked me for news of Kenzo Tange, whom he had come to know through CIAM meetings, and of his old friends, Kunio Maekawa and Junzo Sakakura. Like Maekawa and Sakakura, Sert had worked in Le Corbusier’s atelier on rue de Sèvres in his youth. Having long served as chairman of CIAM, Sert had strong connections to numerous architects and scholars around the world; as dean of the GSD for the next twenty years, he would invite many of those prominent figures to teach and lecture at the school in his quest to make Harvard a point of contact between foreign (primarily European) architects and American architectural education. Those invited included not only practicing architects and city planners but also historians such as Sigfried Giedion and sculptors such as Costantino Nivola and Naum Gabo. In 1953, the studio for the Master’s program was in a high-­ceilinged room on the first floor, on the west side of the building; it was there that twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays from two to six, Sert came around to each one of us in turn and gave us critiques. The American drafting tables were slightly high for him. His forearms resting on the table, he would peer at our drawings and offer criticism that was fair and always to the point. The basis of his architectural criticism even then was an urbanism that was humane and—to borrow a word that became fashionable only much later—contextual. The given problems were always for actual sites, and he placed great importance on key design issues such as adapting buildings to surrounding conditions; exterior spaces created by architecture; clarity of planning; appropriate scale to accommodate the ebb and flow of human movement; sectional development of space and the introduction of natural light; and rhythm and variety in fenestration. While these concerns followed a certain

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tradition of orthodox, modern architectural thought, they nevertheless placed a greater emphasis on the human experience of space, compared to the functionalism espoused by Gropius. Sert was unsparing in his criticism toward projects that did not display sensitivity for such concerns. Whereas Gropius had been more a verbal critic, Sert often picked up a pencil and made sketches to get his ideas across. As I discovered later in working at his atelier, what he preached in the classroom he practiced in his own design work. Sert’s humanist philosophy is manifest today in his many built works. At the same time, however, Sert attempted to develop a wide range of criticism within the school, inviting as visiting professors such notable figures as Ernesto Rogers, partner of the Milan-­based firm BBPR and editor of Casabella. An emotional, expressive man of large build, Rogers would often have differences of opinion with the diminutive, highly rational Sert. We students took pleasure in listening to their exchanges, as well as to Rogers’s anecdotes and witticisms about architecture or architects. He once memorably commented that “to an architect, design is like a flirtatious girlfriend: you never get enough in return, no matter how much love, money, and time you invest.” A few years later, in 1958, Rogers’s firm was to design and build Torre Velasca in Milan. This building was strongly criticized by members of Team X at the 1959 CIAM meeting in Otterlo; the criticism was leveled in an atmosphere suggestive of a religious trial. Rogers died not long afterward, but with time Torre Velasca was indeed recognized as a work of historic significance, marking the advent of postmodernism in Europe. Despite the presence of such charismatic and controversial figures on the GSD faculty, still the greatest fortune for those of us graduating in 1954 remained the fact that Sert gave so much of himself to the studio. Pr o fessi o nal Inter nshi p i n Ne w York an d Cambridge

Finishing the Master’s course in June 1954, I became a junior designer under Gordon Bunshaft at the New York office of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill (SOM). About a year had passed when a Harvard classmate, Dolf Schnebli (later a professor of architecture at the ETH-­Zürich), informed me that he would soon be returning to his native Switzerland and suggested that I try working in his place at Sert’s New York office. Having by this time become fairly well acquainted with the organizational approach of a large office, and looking for new kinds of design

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challenges, I soon left SOM and joined Sert’s office. In those years Sert was working in partnership with Paul Wiener and principally involved in urban planning projects in capital cities throughout Latin America. When I joined his office, he was commencing work on what would be his first real architectural project since his arrival in America. It was the schematic design for an American embassy complex to be built in Baghdad, facing the Euphrates River. Incorporating various water channels drawn from the Euphrates, the project included the ambassador’s residence, staff quarters, a chancellery, and other facilities. Above all it was a work of urban design, and since the university was now in summer recess, Sert could devote all his energy to this project in New York. Unlike SOM’s office, Sert’s studio was small and informal; it occupied a penthouse on the fifth floor of a modest building not far from Times Square, in an area where women of dubious character loitered in doorways even in the daytime. Working late at night, we would sometimes hear an orchestra performing at a wedding reception in the hotel across the street and see people dancing. Emerging onto Times Square at five in the morning after an all-­night stint at the office, we found the crowds of the previous night gone and the streets empty, save for newspapers blown about by the wind; the only sign of human presence would be the sight of a few customers sitting in a ­twenty-­four-­hour cafeteria. I recall that when we finally got to the stage of preparing to send our model of the Baghdad Embassy to the U.S. State Department, Sert’s beautiful, petite wife, Moncha, showed up at the office to help add trees to the model. There was a ­family-­like atmosphere in Sert’s studio which does not exist in large offices, only in small ones, particularly in those that are just starting out. Aside from one American employee, everyone was European or, like myself, Asian, and we all held strong convictions about architecture. When our discussions became too heated, Paul Wiener would come into the room to restore calm, saying “pianissimo, pianissimo!” as though he were a conductor chiding his orchestra. When September approached—and, with it, the need to return to university duties—Sert decided to move his office to Cambridge. I was then thinking of entering a doctoral program at Harvard, and it was soon agreed that I would work part-­time in his office while taking some classes. The Serts chose as a temporary office a detached house in a quiet neighborhood, not far from Harvard Square, with a connected room above the garage. There were only four of us working there: a Pole, a Dane, an American, and myself.

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The ­Polish-­born Joseph Zalewski, who also taught at Harvard, had miraculously escaped from the Warsaw Ghetto during World War II and had come to know Sert through Le Corbusier’s office after the war. Eventually he became Sert’s most trusted partner. He possessed an acute formal sensitivity, and though he could be stubborn, he was a very gentle soul. Among the students who got to know him well at the university, many praised him unreservedly as a great teacher. In Sert’s office, it was common to see Sert discuss things with Zalewski as he designed. In a reversal of the usual ­employer-­employee relationship, Sert was often the designer and Zalewski the critic. When we had to work late, Sert would sometimes invite us for ­before-­dinner drinks and talk to us of his ideas on European history, art, and architecture in a relaxed atmosphere that could not be duplicated in school. The Serts, who had no children, were extremely fond of their beautiful, gray Persian cat. When from time to time they left for a weekend in their house on Long Island, the cat was left in our care. Once, when we weren’t looking, the cat got out of the house and disappeared; fortunately for all of us, it reappeared some time later. As the staff gradually expanded, the atelier became cramped, and we moved to the second floor of an apartment building less than two minutes from Harvard Square with an address I still remember: 54 Boylston Street.1 This wood-­frame building was divided in two in the middle, and each side had its own stairway. My own apartment was on the same floor as the office, but on the other side. This is as close as my residence and workplace have ever been or probably ever will be. In the half-­basement facing Boylston Street was the Patisserie Gabriel, a coffee shop with a French atmosphere. When I got up in the morning, I would first go down and have a breakfast of coffee and croissants and then either go to the university or ascend the other stairway to go to the office. Such was the simple life I led then. My bedroom was separated from Sert’s office only by a wood-­framed wall; more than once when I had overslept, on Sert’s orders someone in the office would bang on that wall. The arrangement did have its advantages in that I could always go home and take a quick shower if I got a little fatigued; this came in handy, because just at that time I was often working straight through the night on the competition for the American Embassy in London. Near the end of my time working at his office, in 1956, Sert organized the first Urban Design Conference at Harvard. Richard Neutra gave the keynote speech, and many members of CIAM took part. What impressed me most at

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the conference, however, was the feeling that a new movement in urbanism was beginning in the United States. Jane Jacobs, who was then writing The Death and Life of Great American Cities, gave an impassioned speech; Edward Bacon introduced his new redevelopment plan for the central district in Philadelphia and the philosophy behind it; and Victor Gruen unveiled a bold proposal for turning the central district in Fort Worth into a ­pedestrian-­only zone. We sensed something new was about to be born. A sense of solidarity developed among those of us who took part in that moment in history, just as it does among participants in movements in art or technological revolutions. However, every movement or revolution will eventually mature and wane. The only alternative then is to start something new. There is no guarantee that that something new will succeed, but such a course of action is unquestionably preferable to adhering to the status quo. That is what moves history along, even if the contribution made by each individual is modest. M y Year s at Wa shi ng to n Uni v er si ty

In spring of 1956, as I was taking several courses at Harvard and working part­time in the office of Sert and Jackson, I became friends with the architect Paul Rudolph. He was then designing the Jewett Center at Wellesley College and had moved temporarily from New York to Cambridge. Our friendship was based on a shared passion for discussing everything new and topical in contemporary architecture; in the 1950s, this included the recent works of the great ­twentieth­century masters such as Le Corbusier and Mies, who were still alive at that time. I still recall a lively discussion Rudolph and I had over a meal regarding the sculptural silhouettes of two of Le Corbusier’s late works, the Millowners’ Building in Ahmedabad and the monastery of La Tourette. Then as now, there was nothing more interesting, no better conversation topic for young architects than to discuss other architects and to evaluate their works. One day Rudolph told me that Washington University in St. Louis was searching for young design instructors, and that he would recommend me if I was interested in applying. I did apply and eventually gained an interview with the new dean, Joseph Passonneau, who was just then beginning to reshape the School of Architecture’s program. At the time, I also had received an offer from the architecture department at North Carolina State University. It seemed to me,

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however, that Washington University was at a critical turning point in its history, and so I took the opportunity to be a part of it. After four years on the U.S. East Coast, St. Louis would provide my first experience of living in the Midwest. I initially found myself a studio apartment in what was for its neighborhood a relatively tall building, on a corner of Delmar, the east-­west avenue on the north side of Forest Park. The city I saw from my apartment window was, aside from a few low hills, basically flat. Like Chicago and Kansas City, this city on the Mississippi River had developed westward. It was a typical example of a city with what urban geographers referred to as a concentric zone system. The development of its suburban districts had come at a price; St. Louis’s downtown area and the old residential districts immediately around it were suffering a decline that was already palpable by the mid-­1950s. The ­Pruitt-­Igoe Housing Project, which the community planning studio at the university took up, was still in good condition then but was fated to disappear not long thereafter. In Tokyo, Cambridge, and New York, my relationship to the city, its streets and blocks, had always been as a pedestrian. My lifestyle in St. Louis was quite different from what I had known previously: it involved traveling by car between various points. Those points were my apartment, the commercial area where Delmar Avenue and the gate to University City met, the university campus, the restaurants and movie theaters to which I went at times with friends, and the homes of close friends. St. Louis as I knew it was merely the sum total of those points and the lines connecting those points. Naturally, had I lived longer in St. Louis, or had I been of the age when strolls again became part of my daily regimen, my relationship to the city might have been different. However, I built up a strong image of St. Louis—the long vistas of avenues, the spaciousness and greenery of Forest Park, the railway station and masonry gate that were symbolic of ­nineteenth-­century culture, and the massive concrete piers of steel bridges—with little physical contact of that kind.2 My life in St. Louis thus began within an extremely simple temporal and spatial framework, with the activity of the School of Architecture at its center. A simple life can also mean a full life. Architects today carry datebooks full of appointments, and life seems to be largely a matter of getting through those appointments, one after another. Architects back in the 1950s, whether in practice or in teaching, were surely not as tied up with engagements as we are today. A

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person in his late twenties (as I was then) had hardly any appointments at all. For me, this was an era full of chance encounters and events that had the potential to be turning points in life. The 1950s were an exciting time to be a part of the architectural world in the United States, particularly in places like New York and California.3 On a regional level, the practitioners active in a given city and the buildings that provoked discussion were clear indices of the vitality of local architectural schools. Factors such as the caliber of architects that a school was able to attract as permanent and visiting faculty, the quality of the commissions that a city might offer those faculty members, and the number of job opportunities available locally for ambitious graduates were all vital benchmarks in gauging the potential of that architecture department. As I recall, in 1956 St. Louis boasted many excellent buildings constructed from the nineteenth to the early twentieth century, including a number of Neoclassicist works and at least one well-­known example of the Chicago School, the Wainwright Building by Louis Sullivan. However, there were very few works of recent contemporary architecture that might attract visitors from outside the region. One such work was the synagogue by Erich Mendelsohn in University City. The St. Louis Airport, which was to become a representative work of 1950s concrete shell structure, was still under construction at that time, and the completion of the Gateway Arch by Eero Saarinen was still several years away. As for local practitioners, Harris Armstrong was introduced to me as the city’s most senior modern architect; another firm working in a modern idiom, Smith and Enzeroth, also maintained close ties to the university. Still, for a city with a population of nearly 850,000, St. Louis could not boast a wealth of human resources as far as architects were concerned. Passonneau was probably more aware than anyone else of St. Louis’s deficiencies in this area. One of the most important strategies of his tenure as dean was to make students aware that the world of architecture was much larger than what most local architects, faculty, and students of the School of Architecture imagined. His predecessor, Buford Pickens, though a brilliant architectural historian with many contacts with the design world, had not capitalized sufficiently on those assets during his deanship. Passonneau was determined not to commit the same error, and so he set about assembling a young, international team of design instructors for his students. He invited the Lithuanian architect George Anselevicius

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to teach at Washington University the same year I arrived.4 Roger Montgomery came from Harvard a year later.5 Constantinos Michaelides arrived from Greece and William Roberts from England to join the faculty in 1960, and later Team X members such as Aldo van Eyck, Jacob Bakema, and Shadrach Woods were invited as visiting professors during the years I spent at Washington University. During this period, the university also strengthened its domestic ties, reaching out to architects not just on the East Coast but also in Chicago. Passonneau was already well acquainted with many partners of SOM in Chicago, and we young instructors also had contacts in the city. Ben Weese, for example, was a close friend of mine from our days at Harvard. In graduate school, I had spent Christmas with his family and had been overwhelmed by the rich architectural legacy of Chicago as well as the intensity of its contemporary architecture scene. I came to realize that Chicago held not only an enormous wealth of buildings by Chicago School architects but also the greatest number of works by two of the twentieth century’s greatest masters, Frank Lloyd Wright and Mies van der Rohe. The next generation of Chicago architects was also full of promise, producing figures such as Ben’s older brother Harry Weese, Fred Keck, and Bruce Graham of SOM. I discovered in my first semester as an instructor that virtually none of my students had ever gone to look at buildings in Chicago. I promptly decided to organize a weekend trip to the city for them during the semester. We split up into several cars and made a wonderful adventure of this trip, going as far north as Racine, Wisconsin, to visit Wright’s stunning headquarters complex for the Johnson Wax Company. By 1956, more than a decade had passed since World War II, but at Washington University, as at Harvard, a considerable number of students were there studying on the GI Bill. Still in my late twenties, I was younger than several of my students. Talking to one of them, I found he had been stationed in Tokyo during the Occupation. I had been in high school when the war ended in 1945, and there was a time when the tall, gun-­toting American soldiers I saw around me had seemed as strange as beings from another planet. Ten years later, there we were in the United States, an instructor from Japan and an ex‑GI as his student. The fact that our relationship was no different from other ­teacher-­student relationships seemed to me a reflection of the ­large-­hearted character of Americans. The design studio met every week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and then there were the preparations and reviews. Under Passonneau’s superb leader-

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ship, the School of Architecture gradually came to be known not only in the rest of the United States but in the international architectural community, and my colleagues and I were able to lead fulfilling lives as teachers. A F i r s t C ommi ssi o n: Stei nb er g Ha l l

As a young architect, however, I must confess I was not satisfied with every aspect of my professional life. As someone from abroad, I did not have—nor did I much expect—opportunities for actual design work in the area. In addition, the workload at the university did not permit me to look for part-­time work. One outlet for my budding career as an architect was to participate in competitions. Although design competitions were not as frequently held in the United States as in Europe or Japan, I had a chance to enter a few while at Washington University, including those for new city halls in Boston and Ottawa. Although I did not place in either of those competitions, I did manage to become a finalist, together with a few studio colleagues, in a competition for a housing project in San Francisco’s Diamond Heights. Soon a new opportunity arose to launch my career as a designer of buildings. In my second year at the university, former dean Buford Pickens—now serving as director of the Campus Planning Office—asked me to help devise the various planning projects that had come his way. The Campus Planning Office was a quite modest affair, occupying the northeastern end of Givens Hall and including Pickens’s office, a corner for his secretary, and a single workroom for the staff—which meant me, essentially, having been given the title of Campus Planning Associate. Whenever models or drawings had to be prepared, I would find students to do part-­time work. Although my responsibilities were modest, I welcomed the opportunity to take part in campus planning; the hours were flexible, and I often worked late into the night in the workroom. Early in 1958, Pickens told me that a new building was to be donated by Mrs. Steinberg, a widow living just south of the campus, to the School of Architecture and the School of Art. He asked me to develop a proposal. The program called for a library, an auditorium and gallery to be shared by both schools, and offices and special classrooms for the art history department. I found the project quite interesting, especially as it was closely related to the School of Architecture. I was given a free hand in the design. Pickens was content to give me friendly counsel

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from time to time and never suggested an alternative scheme of his own. Dean Passonneau, however, being an architect and a future user of the facility, never hesitated to offer more detailed advice. Drawing on his background as a structural designer, he offered professional guidance on the ­folded-­plate structure at the core of my design proposal. At the time of this unexpected commission, I was still a young, nameless architect; looking back now, I see that without the warm support given by these two men, it would have been difficult for me to realize my design. Neither the donor nor the university exerted any pressure. Being young, I did not fully realize then what a rare opportunity I was being given: to be able to devote myself, by myself, to the translation of a wonderful program into a building.6 There was a great deal of interest in the potential of new concrete structures in the United States at the time. Eero Saarinen’s TWA Terminal at Idlewild (now JFK) Airport in New York and Gyo Obata’s concrete shell structure for the St. Louis Airport were the focus of great attention in the architectural world. Obata later became a founding partner of HOK, headquartered in St. Louis, where he designed another innovative concrete shell structure for the city’s planetarium. ­Folded-­plate concrete structures were also becoming a popular solution among architects for creating long-­span, columnless interiors. The site for Steinberg Hall, between Bixby Hall and Givens Hall, was by no means large. I felt that, if possible, Steinberg Hall ought to be more ethereal in character than the two box-­shaped buildings flanking it; this, rather than an inherent structural necessity for long spans, led to the ­folded-­plate, cantilevered roof parti of this building. The study progressed smoothly, and by spring of 1958 the proposal was ready to be shown to Mrs. Steinberg. I had students build the ­sixteenth-­scale presentation model, but I did all the perspectives and drawings

1.4 A first commission: Steinberg Hall on Washington University campus, St. Louis, completed in 1960.

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myself. Mrs. Steinberg liked the proposal from the start; I later heard that she declared her willingness to donate all the funds required for the building, with the stipulation that it be constructed exactly as designed. I have no way of knowing if her statement was simply an expression of her warm feelings toward the design or a strategy for forestalling the kind of outside criticisms that might have compromised the process of its realization. In either case, the trust and generosity implicit in her statement demonstrated the spirit of patronage that has long been an essential factor in advancing architectural culture. It was through this encounter with an exceptional patron that I had the good fortune to design my first work in the United States. Around this time I met with a second stroke of good fortune that would also have a major influence on my subsequent career as an architect: I was chosen that year to receive a Graham Foundation Fellowship. The Foundation had in the previous year established generous fellowships to enable architects and artists from all over the world to engage in research, free from teaching and other responsibilities. The grant of ten thousand dollars that went with the fellowship was the biggest in the art world at the time, and was sufficient to support an artist for about two years. The research theme I had proposed to the Graham Foundation was a comparative study of urbanism in Asia, the Middle East, and Europe. Entering my sixth year of life in the United States, I felt myself at a turning point, and the grant gave me a golden opportunity. It did not take long, once the news of the fellowship came, to decide to embark on a journey. Through Passonneau’s kind intervention, I was able to get a two-­year leave from the university. With the basic design of Steinberg Hall proceeding smoothly by the end of spring 1958, I could hand over the remaining work on its construction drawings to a

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local architectural firm, Schwarz & Van Hoefen, without much regret.7 I returned to Tokyo briefly to organize what would become two years of travel and study through cities, towns, and landscapes across several continents and cultures. A Westwar d Jo ur ney

Just as in the flow of history the significance of a phenomenon is understood only after the passage of several decades, the period in one’s life that was most critical is often recognized only much later. The two years from 1958 to 1960 that I spent on the Graham Foundation Fellowship were an unforgettable period of my life; perhaps I was certain of this even then. The only obligation for the nine fellows chosen in 1958 was to gather at the Foundation headquarters in Chicago for a week at the beginning of the fellowship year, in September 1958. The fellows that year included the Indian architect Balkrishna V. Doshi (with whom I have remained close friends ever since), the Spanish sculptor Eduardo Chillida, the Cuban Surrealist painter Wilfredo Lam, and the ­Austrian-­born architect Frederick Kiesler. Kiesler differed from the rest of us in being of a more advanced age and having an already established career—he was well known for his design of the “Endless House”; his lively wit helped to galvanize the group’s sense of fellowship. After this initial meeting week in Chicago, we went our separate ways. I made two long trips in 1959 and 1960 to Southeast Asia, India, the Middle East, and Europe. My intention was to study cities and their formation in a number of different climates and cultures. The book Fudo by philosopher Tetsuro Watsuji (1889–­1960)8 had made a deep impression on me when I was a college student; it is an excellent work of comparative civilization of three regions, based on observations Watsuji made while traveling from Japan to Europe and experiencing in succession the monsoon region of Asia, the desert region of the Middle East, and the meadowlands of Europe. My own journey, to some degree, retraced Watsuji’s steps. I will never forget the thrill I felt on seeing the Mediterranean for the first time in my life. I had traveled from Damascus, Syria, by way of the Golan Heights, and was on my way to Beirut when I stopped on a small hill in Byblos and saw the blue sea in the distance. I visited not only ancient ruins, famous temples and palaces, but also contemporary buildings that were much discussed at the time. I made a special point of going to those by Le Corbusier.

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Of the many cities and villages I visited on my two extended trips, the ones that made the greatest impression on me were communities of houses built with walls of sun-­dried brick and tiled roofs, of the kind that are scattered along the Mediterranean coast in countless numbers. The sight of those houses, with their features thrown into sharp relief by deep shadows, linked and piled on top of one another on the hillside under the strong sun and against a deep blue sky, was remarkable in itself. But what was even more striking was the fact that the community—that is, the collective form—was composed of quite simple formal and spatial elements, such as rooms arranged around a small courtyard. At that time architects and historians in Japan had not yet begun to undertake surveys of villages. I saw in those collective forms from the Mediterranean both an expression of regional culture and a body of wisdom accumulated over many years. Here, as nowhere else, I became aware of the existence of a historical and decisive relationship between cities and architecture. For those cultures, creating buildings and creating cities were one and the same thing. The significance of architectural typology, the principles of grouping, and the use of architecture by society as a mnemonic device all arise from that phenomenon. During this period I began to reflect on various issues of urbanism that I had barely considered in my first ten years in the field of architecture. The memory of collective forms in Middle Eastern and Mediterranean communities—and the architectural devices that made those communities possible— remained with me long afterward and led me to write out some thoughts on the principles of architectural and urban grouping—informally at first, later in essays for publication. Eventually my ideas on group form would mature and develop into an ­English-­language publication: a little red booklet entitled Investigations in Collective Form, published by the School of Architecture of Washington University and reprinted in part 2 below. Part i c i pati o n i n Metab o l i sm

In 1958 an idea emerged within Japan’s architectural and design circles to host an international conference and to invite leading practitioners from abroad to participate. Following a groundswell of support, preparations began for the first World Design Conference, which would take place in Tokyo in May 1960.

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A group of architects centered on Junzo Sakakura and Kenzo Tange took primary responsibility for organizing the architectural portion of the conference. The conference director, Takashi Asada, however, was on close terms with a separate architectural faction centered on the young Japanese architects Kiyonori Kikutake and Kisho Kurokawa and the critic and editor of Shinkenchiku magazine, Noboru Kawazoe. Around that time, Kikutake, Kurokawa, and Kawazoe were attempting to make a statement about a new kind of urbanism for Japan. In Europe, architects from the Italian Futurists and Russian Constructivists to Le Corbusier had been developing and presenting proposals of their own, independent of any commission or the prospect of a commission, for a long time. In Japan, however, few had previously offered such unsolicited ideas in the architectural world. Asada’s connection to the young architects led to discussions about the possibility of making the 1960 conference an occasion for airing such new proposals. In the fall of 1958 I was temporarily back in Japan preparing for the next two years of travels as a fellow of the Graham Foundation. It was then that my acquaintance with these architects began and that, with the designer Kiyoshi Awazu, the group movement called Metabolism was formed. Those developments eventually led to the publication of a manifesto entitled Metabolism 1960. My own contribution to this manifesto was an essay entitled “Toward a Group Form,” coauthored with Masato Otaka and reflecting impressions gathered on my journey that year to cities and villages of the Mediterranean and Middle East. At the time of our essay, many people, including prominent architects and politicians, were discussing the development of large tracts of land to the west of Shinjuku Station, formerly occupied by a water purification plant. Concurrent with our essay, Otaka and I made a joint urban design proposal for West Shinjuku,

1.5 Proposal for new urban development in West Shinjuku, coauthored by Maki and Otaka as their contribution to the manifesto Metabolism 1960.

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intended not so much as an actual scheme for that area but as a demonstration of the idea of group form. The proposal clearly was not intended to replicate the actual forms of villages seen on my journey but, rather, to confirm in more abstract terms what I had discovered: the notion of an urban order based on a collection of elements. I believed that this notion offered an alternative paradigm to the kinds of order that architects and Utopians had been proposing since the start of the twentieth century, based on enormous structures built on the scale of civil engineering works. When Metabolism 1960 was produced, Masato Otaka, the eldest member of our group, was 37; Kurokawa, the youngest, was 26; Kikutake and I were both 32. Except for Kikutake, none of us had an office of our own yet. We did not imagine that with Metabolism 1960 we would suddenly attract such great interest from the international architectural world, and that Metabolism itself would subsequently come to be seen by historians as one of the important architectural movements of the 1960s. Why did Metabolism 1960 attract so much attention and make such a powerful impression on overseas intellectuals at the time? Perhaps it was because, as Joan Ockman has written in Architecture Culture 1943–­1968, our proposals combined technology and symbolism in architectural forms that were more specific than other utopian proposals advanced up to that time.9 In his book Metabolism,10 the critic Hajime Yatsuka records a conversation between two members of Archigram, Dennis Crompton and Peter Cook, that touches on their amazement and impression on first encountering the Metabolist manifesto. What was noteworthy and made the proposals seem so fresh to them was the way the road system, capsules, and housing were integrated. In particular,

1.6 Ocean City project by Kiyonori Kikutake, 1959.

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the roads proposed by Kurokawa were in smooth, ­spaghetti-­like tubes that entwined, twisted, and climbed. Metabolist works seemed almost like continuous organisms. The other thing that impressed them in particular was the boldness of Kikutake’s Ocean City proposal. Around the time of the World Design Conference, I recall our group assembling in a small inn in Ginza at the invitation of Takashi Asada, our mentor and advisor (though not himself a member of Metabolism). Sitting on the tatami and drinking beer, we discussed our views and proposals in a free and open way, unmindful of the differences in our ages. Such a gathering would be unimaginable today. Our group was bound together by shared ideals and experiences. Asada, Kuro­ kawa, Isozaki, and I had all belonged to the Tange Atelier at one time or another; and Tange was, in his own way, always conscious of work by the younger Kikutake. I think all of us believed that the time had come for Japan to stop viewing its architecture and cities in terms of achieving parity with the West; instead, we could now present to the world bold new ideas on urbanism and architecture that were uniquely our own. That belief—and the fact that, apart from myself, we had little firsthand knowledge of the West—probably accounted for the boldness of those proposals. From 1960 on, there were plans to expand our group, to create a slightly looser organization around the central figure of Tange that would include Isozaki and other young architects; but these plans were never realized because ­would‑be members became too busy with their own work. The Metabolist manifesto was not followed by a second publication. Metabolism is widely regarded as a ­short­lived movement compared with Team X or Archigram. However, a number of realized projects, such as Kurokawa’s Nakagin Capsule Tower Building (1972), Kikutake’s Aquapolis in Okinawa (1975)—a smaller version of his Ocean City— and the Low-­Cost Housing in Lima, Peru designed by Kikutake, Kurokawa, and myself (1972), can claim to have tested and, in some measure, achieved the Metabolist ideal of growth and change. Tange’s 1960 “Plan for Tokyo” was clearly an elaboration and extension of Kikutake’s Ocean City idea. And even today, we still remember the Osaka Exposition in 1970 as an event that brought together the ­avant-­garde architects of the day and enabled them to develop their own individual ideas—not least of all Tange, who was responsible for the Festival Plaza. The specific, fresh architectural character of Metabolism can be seen both as a consequence of the Zeitgeist of Japan’s postwar economic miracle and as a product of

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Japan’s rapidly maturing architectural culture, increasingly centered around Tange during those years. That movement led to Japan’s emergence as a global center of new architectural ideas, a position it continues to occupy today.11 Team X : T he ­Bag no l s-­s ur -­C è z e Co nfer en c e

Among the leading American architects invited to Tokyo for the 1960 World Design Conference were Paul Rudolph, whom I knew from my days in Cambridge, and Louis Kahn, whose lecture I translated into Japanese. Other invitees included the British ­husband-­and-­wife architectural team Peter and Alison Smithson. At the time of the conference, I was planning my second trip to Europe, and the Smithsons invited me to participate as an observer at the Team X meeting they would be holding that July in the small city of ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze in the south of France. The core participants at the ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze conference were Jacob Bakema and Aldo van Eyck from the Netherlands; the Smithsons and John Voelker from Great Britain; Giancarlo De Carlo from Italy; Ralph Erskine, a Briton working in Sweden; Georges Candilis, a Greek working in France; Shadrach Woods, an American working in France; Oskar Hansen from Poland; and Stefan Wewerka from Germany. Many of them brought their wives and children. The mayor of ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze had kindly made a room in the city hall available, and the members of Team X brought project drawings and photographs and hung them on the walls. The conference was held in English, and took approximately five days. Half a day was devoted to each project under discussion, and at times there were intense arguments. Today most international architecture conferences are formal affairs with severe time constraints, but that meeting was quite informal in character. Members felt a strong camaraderie, even amid fierce exchanges of views, and a sense of pride in being in the ­avant-­garde of the time—the atmosphere was not dissimilar to that of our discussions on Metabolism at that time in Japan. The focal point of the ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze conference was housing, especially the question of how great numbers might be dealt with in designing collective housing in cities. The members of Team X were trying to establish a new urban typology from the architectural vocabulary of modernism. Beyond application to housing typology, the theory of groups and principles of formal manipulation

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concealed in groups were also intently discussed, using vernacular African villages as examples. Van Eyck had led a number of architects and photographers in crossing the Sahara Desert the year before. It was also at this conference that Van Eyck’s famous Orphanage in Amsterdam and Woods’s scheme for the Free University in Berlin were discussed. The members of Team X, who had joined forces in rebellion against the doctrinaire ways of CIAM, were mostly in their late thirties and forties. In exploring the relationship of architectural form to regionalism, hence imbuing architecture with human and cultural associations, they were attempting to combat the uniformity of existing urban theory. As is evident from subsequent history, however, the enormous monster called the contemporary city rejected the establishment of new typologies envisioned by these European architects. Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze was also a place for personal interaction. The morning session was interrupted around one o’clock, and a ­multi-­course meal in the European style was served in the roadside restaurant of the hotel where everyone was staying. The group would move to the poolside after the meal, and then the afternoon session would be held until around eight in the evening. Many architects’ wives sat in a corner of the room, knitting and listening in on the discussion. From eight until late at night there would be a ­multi-­course meal again. During the dinner, of course, the discussion would continue. At times, in between meetings, we would go visit Roman ruins in Avignon or go to some nighttime festival to carouse. It was in this setting—equally intense in its social and intellectual dimensions—that I became acquainted with a number of leading architects from Europe, many of whom I would continue to meet in the following decades.12

1.7 Meeting of Team X members in ­ agnols-­sur-­Cèze, France, July 1960. B Fumihiko Maki is seated to the far left.

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T h e Sea s o n o f Ur b ani sm

The years following my Graham Foundation Fellowship were packed with encounters with people and architecture. Remaining in contact still with the Tange Laboratory, and having participated in the World Design Conference, the Metabolist group, and Team X’s ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze conference—all in 1960—I was developing a wide network of contacts with architects both established and newly emerging in Japan and abroad. I felt the ease of not belonging to any organization and possessed all the free time I wanted. It was a life filled with dreams but no ambition, in which everyone was quite sociable. It was an era when even celebrated architects had control over their time and were not overburdened with jobs and the various outside activities that now come with jobs. Returning to Washington University after my two-­year fellowship had ended in 1960, I moved to an apartment on the first floor of a low-­r ise building near Rosebury Street, on a hill south of the campus. Other young instructors in the School of Architecture also lived in this district, and there was a great deal of interaction among the families. I remember that we often went out together for meals near Gaslight Square, then a thriving pocket of gentrification in midtown St. Louis.13 With Steinberg Hall now complete, I undertook a number of new projects at the Campus Planning Office, including the design of a small meditation chapel. At Washington University, as at other architecture schools, the 1960s were an era when studio instructors began to focus on urban design—that is, the relationship between the city and architecture. We gradually began to emphasize the need to approach design from the context of the given site or the surrounding urban condition rather than considering buildings to be autonomous objects. In 1961 a

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new graduate program emphasizing urban design got under way with ten students, many of them from foreign countries (Denmark, Austria, India, Japan), as the first entering class. At that time, the only graduate programs known for their urban design emphasis were Harvard’s GSD under Sert and the Architecture Department at the University of Pennsylvania, where David Crane was the driving force. Some years later Colin Rowe developed his own distinctive approach to teaching urban design at Cornell. At Washington University, naturally, it was Passonneau who led the new undertaking, while Roger Montgomery and I participated as advisors in the development of the curriculum. As with the design commission for Steinberg Hall, everything was much more informal and expeditious than it would be today: the dynamics of our small group of instructors was responsible for writing a new chapter in the history of the School of Architecture. Through our efforts to define a new program and curriculum in urban design, our students came into contact with a broader range of reality and ideas and gradually began to discover a new architectural world full of possibilities. In 1962, I decided to accept a new invitation from Sert to join in the GSD’s Urban Design faculty, and so I left St. Louis to spend another three years in Cambridge before returning to Japan to embark on new activities in that country. In the GSD’s urban design program, the atmosphere among both the faculty and the students was decidedly non-­American. In particular, people from Europe, though mostly modernist in outlook, had strong views and positions with respect to European history. To them, history, whether something to be affirmed or rejected, was an essential part of their education, a cultural foundation that they had totally assimilated. Kunio Maekawa, Junzo Sakakura, and Takamasa Yoshizaka—leading Japanese architects with whom I became acquainted around that time—seemed to me to have something in common with such European architects, whereas many American architects, even those who were well known, gave the impression of being simply practitioners. Many Team X members were invited to Harvard and MIT as visiting professors in the years following the ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze conference. I subsequently had the opportunity to teach studios together with a number of them. The two with whom I was closest and from whom I learned the most were De Carlo and Van Eyck. Van Eyck and I taught at both Washington University and Harvard University at the same time and had opportunities to spend a great deal of time together. He had a profound knowledge of European architectural history, literature, and

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modern art. Van Eyck was also an incomparable storyteller, and in his words the Maison de Verre (1931) of Pierre Chareau became a house out of a modernist fairy tale. A man who sympathized with the philosophy of Martin Buber, he wrote monologues from time to time and was always in search of a foe to combat. Indeed, it was through contacts with Team X members that I became aware of a richer, more varied history of modern architecture in Europe. Around 1962, Peter Smithson edited an issue of Architectural Design that introduced representative European buildings from the 1910s to the 1930s—a period he referred to as “the heroic age” of modernism. Those buildings have since been taken up again by magazines, but very few of them had appeared in Giedion’s Space, Time and Architecture.14 It was a time when the history of modern architecture was beginning to be reexamined, as witnessed by the rediscovery of the Futurists by Reyner Banham. Colin Rowe’s essays on the early works of Le Corbusier were at last attracting attention. Masterpieces of early modernist architecture such as Johannes Duiker’s Zonnestraal Sanatorium (1931), Amsterdam Cinema (1934), and Grand Hotel (1936), and J. A. Brinkman’s apartment building in Rotterdam (1922)—all of which had somehow been neglected by midcentury historians—were rediscovered. It was also around this time that I visited the Schroeder House (1924) in Utrecht together with Van Eyck. Mrs. Schroeder herself showed us around, and we were given a small autographed pamphlet. I also went to see Brinkman’s Cigarette Factory (1930) and other contemporary works, rediscovering in them the ­avant-­garde character and the mature expression of modernism. M y M o d e r ni sm

It was around 1965 that I returned to Japan and opened an architectural office. At about this time, people’s conception of architecture underwent a major change as a result of a series of events—the Vietnam War, the global energy crisis, the student revolt that began in Paris and spread rapidly to the United States and Japan—that are now understood to have been historically inevitable rather than isolated, chance occurrences. The attempt to understand architecture as an autonomous discipline represented a rejection of functionalist, doctrinaire modernism and foretold the coming of postmodernism. Looking back today, however, we might take a more moderate view of the historical rupture claimed by postmodernists, for despite the intellectual crisis of

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the 1960s and 1970s, it is possible to say that modernism never simply disappeared, or even waned. Modernism may have changed its guise with the times, but it has continued to exist into the ­twenty-­first century because it is in fact a system of change. Modernism has permitted changes to occur from within, but in the end it has subsumed those changes. That it has been able to survive with its essential character intact for more than one hundred years, despite the various formal and spatial adaptations that have been made due to drastic changes in technology, environment, function, and urban life, is itself proof of the resilience of the system. In my work I have always tried to ascertain what remains constant and what undergoes change in modernism. The first phase of Hillside Terrace belongs to the early period of the practice I began upon my return to Japan, and the sixth phase of that same project was completed in 1992. Each phase was in itself a fairly modest project, but work on Hillside Terrace as a whole took approximately ­twenty-­five years. A consistently modernist idiom was employed throughout those years to create a group form unified spatially, but encompassing changes in form reflecting the differences in the periods in which the individual buildings were constructed. The work expresses a view of architecture that has been shaped by various experiences described above. Similarly, the series of designs I produced in the 1980s— beginning with the Fujisawa Gymnasium and the Spiral Building and ending with the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium—follows the arc of an alternative modernism that I have long considered. These more overtly figural projects reflect criticisms leveled by postmodernists toward the earlier, doctrinaire modernism. I have been interested, however, not in the use of direct historical references typical of postmodernist vocabulary but, rather, in a reconsideration of more basic principles of architecture that can be observed in history. My concern was also with the expression of a new material sensibility in the surfaces of ­buildings. I believe that modernism is not an architectural style that changes completely every three years, like fashion; rather, it is a more continuous, cumulative movement. Commentary on architecture is not merely an ­avant-­garde activity but also a “rearguard” action. Distant yet distinct memories of the Tsuchiura House and of foreign ships I saw as a child were stirred several decades later when I saw for the first time Pierre Chareau’s Maison de Verre in Paris, with its large wall of glass blocks backlit by soft winter light; the railing in the mezzanine of Tsuchiura’s house is strikingly similar to the railing of the stairwell in Duiker’s Zonnestraal Sanatorium that I visited thirty years later. Although these encounters all left vivid

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impressions, each had entirely different meanings: it is by examining the differences in meanings that one’s individual modernism develops. New ideas and sensibilities are always required of contemporary architects. The architects I have mentioned in this chapter—talented practitioners, idealistic theorists, passionate educators—each played an important role in his or her respective era and made a critical contribution to architecture and to contemporary society. Many of them have died, and of the rest, not a few are in their old age. Yet it seems to me that, compared to many of today’s architects who are the offspring of the information society, my predecessors and mentors had far more attractive human qualities. By “new ideas and sensibilities,” I mean that architects must be flexible in thought; at the same time, those architects who have gone ahead of us have shown by the way they lived that a certain tenacity is also required. The way architecture and architects ought to be—that is the theme with which I have wrestled since my first encounter with modernism.

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C o llec t i ve F o r m

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C o l l e c t i v e F o r m : A Preface

In the fall of 1960, at the age of 32, I returned to teaching at Washington University after two years of travels through Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. Over the course of the following year, using notes I had made during my travels, I wrote a paper describing three paradigms of collective form that would subsequently become the first chapter of a booklet entitled Investigations in Collective Form. I sent copies of this “underground” publication to the members of Team X as well as to American architects and urban designers with whom I had recently become acquainted. I received an unexpectedly large number of responses from people like Walter Gropius, Kevin Lynch, and Jacob Bakema, who kindly took the time to send me their comments. One reason my paper met with such a response was that the early 1960s were a time when critical questions were being asked about the relationship between architecture and the city. The notion of megastructure—a popular approach to merging architecture and urban design into a single system—had arisen and was being tested in both theoretical and actual built projects. Although it is out of favor today, the megastructure must be seen in the context of the time as an attempt to expand the realm of architectural possibility based on an unrestrained faith in technology. Many leading architects, including the members of Team X, took a humanist and regionalist approach and rejected megastructures, but still they were troubled by “the issue of great numbers”—that is, the effectiveness of architects in dealing with the problem of housing large numbers of people in the postwar period. My approach, which was to study the relationship between architecture and the city from the perspective of collections of buildings and ­quasi-­buildings, offered something new to this discussion.

My experience in visiting Mediterranean hill towns and Middle Eastern villages—each a convincing urban unity that had evolved over time without the guidance of an architect’s master plan—convinced me that ultimately, in a truly organic form such as a city, the urban order can be maintained only if the autonomy of individual buildings and districts is assured. The notion of starting with individual elements to arrive at a whole was not only elaborated in my essay introducing the notion of collective form, but it subsequently became an essential theme for my own architectural aesthetic and logic. Investigations in Collective Form was published by Washington University in 1964. It was a small pamphlet with a red cover, about eighty pages long, and included an appendix in which a number of urban design projects I was working on at the time were introduced. The first section may appear at first glance to present the three paradigms of collective form—compositional form, group form, and megaform—as opposing, antagonistic patterns. On the contrary, the three patterns or modes are not mutually exclusive but can coexist in one configuration; they define the three basic relationships that always exist between individual elements and the whole. One premise of my argument was that the elements of compositional form are architecturally more self-­sufficient than those of either group form or megaform, but perhaps I ought to have undertaken a more extended analysis of modes of exterior space and the interstices among elements within the composition. My lack of experience in actually designing buildings may have accounted for this oversight. It was only later, in planning projects such as Hillside Terrace, Rissho University, Keio University’s ­Shonan-­Fujisawa campus, and, most recently, Republic Polytechnic campus in Singapore that I gradually gained experience in designing collective forms and learned that their coherence depends as much on the creation of exterior spaces as it does on architectural forms. Through these experiences I also discovered a more subtle technique: by emphasizing the autonomy of individual architectural elements and deliberately creating weak linkages between them, one enables those elements to become more distinct indices of time and place. Both opposition and harmony characterize urban relationships on many different levels, and their cumulative effect determines our actual image of the city. The second section, which I wrote with Jerry Goldberg—then a research student at Washington University—was an essay on collections of elements from

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the perspective of linkage on various levels. If each building—that is, each structural unit of the city—has its own lifespan, then different elements are apt to be replaced at different times. The relationship that ought to be created among elements of different ages becomes an issue of organic linkage among elements. The city can be seen as the sum total of countless events being generated simultaneously. When the architect or planner introduces something new under such circumstances, that action fits into certain operational categories. Our essay on linkage attempted to reveal the stance of the designer with respect to the city in the process and method of the particular operation; the historical context that each individual carries with him is made apparent by such operations. This argument recognizes that the city as a physical place and social system depends on the autonomy of individual elements and seeks ways in which each individual element may participate in the whole.

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I n v e st i g at i o n s i n collect iv e form C o l l e c t i v e F o r m : Three Parad igm s

B e g i nni ng

There is no more concerned observer of our changing society than the urban designer. Charged with giving form—with perceiving and contributing order—to agglomerates of building, highways, and green spaces in which men and women have increasingly come to work and live, they stand between technology and human need and seek to make the first a servant, for the second must be paramount in a civilized world. For the moment, we are designers only, interested in technology and order insofar as these may be divorced from the political and the economic. Of course, the progenitors of any formal idea include politics and economics. The reason, in fact, for searching for new formal concepts in contemporary cities lies in the magnitude of relatively recent changes in urban problems. Our urban society is characterized by (1) coexistence and conflict of amazingly heterogeneous institutions and individuals; (2) unprecedented rapid and extensive transformations in the physical structure of society; (3) rapid communications methods; and (4) technological progress and its impact upon regional culture. The force of these contemporary urban characteristics makes it impossible to visualize urban form as did Roman military chiefs, or Renaissance architects such as Sangallo and Michelangelo. Nor can we easily perceive a hierarchical order, as did the original CIAM theorists in the quite recent past. We must now see our urban society as a dynamic field of interrelated forces. It is a set of mutually independent variables in a rapidly expanding infinite series. Any order introduced within the pattern of forces contributes to a state of dynamic equilibrium—an equilibrium that will change in character as time passes.

Our concern here is not the “master plan” but the “master program,” since the latter term includes a time dimension. Given a set of goals, the “master program” suggests several alternatives for achieving them, the use of one or another of which is decided by the passage of time and its effect on the ordering concept. As a physical correlation of the master program, there are “master forms” that differ from buildings in that they, too, respond to the dictates of time. Our problem is this: do we have in urban design an adequate spatial language (an appropriate master form) with which we can create and organize space within the master program? Cities today tend to be visually and physically confused. They are monotonous patterns of static elements. They lack visual and physical character consonant with the functions and technology that compose them. They also lack elasticity and flexibility. Our cities must change as social and economic uses dictate, and yet they must not be “temporary” in the worst visual sense. We lack an adequate visual language to cope with the superhuman scale of modern highway systems and with views from airplanes. The visual and physical concepts at our disposal have to do with single buildings, and with the compositional means for organizing them. The wealth of our architectural heritage is immense. One cursory look at architectural history is sufficient for us to see that the whole development is characterized by an immense human desire to make buildings grand and perfect. True, they have often mirrored the strengths of their civilizations. They have produced the pyramids, the Parthenon, Gothic cathedrals, and the Seagram Building. This is still a prevailing attitude among many architects—the creation of something new and splendid in order to outdo others. A theory of architecture has evolved through this one issue: how one can create perfect single buildings. A striking fact against this phenomenon is that there is almost a complete absence of any coherent theory beyond that of single buildings. We have so long accustomed ourselves to conceiving of buildings as separate entities that we now suffer from an inadequacy of spatial language to make meaningful environments. This situation has prompted me to investigate the nature of collective form. Collective form concerns groups of buildings and ­quasi-­buildings—the segments of our cities. Collective form is, however, a collection not of unrelated, separate buildings, but of buildings that have reasons to be together. Cities, towns, and villages throughout the world do not lack rich collections of collective form. Most of them have simply evolved; they have not been designed.

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This explains why today so many professionals, both architects and ­planners, often fail to make meaningful collective forms—meaningful in order to give the forms a forceful raison d’être in our society. The following analysis has evolved through two questions: first, how has collective form been developed in history?; and second, what are its possible implications for our current thinking in architecture and urban design? The investigation of collective form is extensive, but promising. The first step is to analyze structural principles involved in making collective form. I have established three major approaches: Compositional Form

Compositional Approach

Megastructure/​Megaform

Structural Approach

Group Form

Sequential Approach

The first of these, the compositional approach, is a historical one. The second two are new efforts toward finding master forms which satisfy the demands of contemporary urban growth and change. Co mpo si ti o nal Fo r m

The compositional approach is a commonly accepted and practiced concept in the past and at present. The elements that comprise a collective form are conceived and determined separately. In other words, they are often individually tailored

2.1 Three approaches to collective form (from left to right): compositional form, megaform, and group form.

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buildings. Proper functional, visual, and spatial (sometimes symbolic) relationships are established on a two-­dimensional plane. It is no surprise that this is the most understandable and widely used technique for architects in making collective form, because the process resembles one of making a building out of given components. It is a natural extension of the architectural approach. It is a static approach, because the act of making a composition itself has a tendency to complete a formal statement. Most contemporary ­large-­scale urban designs fall into this category. Rockefeller Center, Chandigarh Government Center, and Brasília are good examples of compositional urban design. The compositional approach is a familiar one, and it has received some treatment in works on architecture and planning. We will, therefore, let it stand on its own merit and introduce two less well-­known approaches. M e g a s t r u ctur e

The megastructure is a large frame in which all the functions of a city or part of a city are housed. It has been made possible by ­present-­day technology. In a sense, it is a ­human-­made feature of the landscape. It is like the great hill on which Italian towns were built. Inherent in the megastructure concept, along with a certain static nature, is the suggestion that many and diverse functions may be beneficially concentrated in one place. A large frame implies some utility in combination and concentration of functions. Urban designers are attracted to the megastructure concept because it offers a legitimate way to order massive grouped functions. One need only look at work

2.2 Compositional form: Oscar Niemeyer’s capital complex for Brasília.

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in a recent Museum of Modern Art show on “Visionary Architecture” to sense the excitement generated among designers by megaform. While some of the ideas displayed in the show demonstrate virtuosity at the expense of human scale and human functional needs, others have a quality which suggests no divergence between compacted economic function and human use. That utility is sometimes only apparent. We frequently confuse the potential that technology offers with a compulsion to “use it fully.” Technological possibility can be useful only when it is a tool of civilized persons. Inhuman use of technological advance is all too frequently our curse. Optimum productivity does not even depend on mere concentration of activities and workers. As Percival and Paul Goodman say in Communitas: We could centralize or decentralize, concentrate population or scatter it. If we want to continue the trend away from the country, we can do that; but if we want to combine town and country values in an agrindustrial way of life, we can do that. . . . It is just this relaxing of necessity, this extraordinary flexibility and freedom of choice of our techniques, that is baffling and frightening to people. . . . Technology is a sacred cow left strictly to (unknown) experts, as if the form of the industrial machine did not profoundly affect every person. . . . They think that it is more efficient to centralize, whereas it is usually more i­nefficient.1

Technology must not dictate choices to us in our cities. We must learn to select modes of action from among the possibilities technology presents in physical ­planning.

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One of the most interesting developments of the megaform was done by Professor Kenzo Tange with MIT graduate students when he was a visiting professor there. In a series of three articles in the September 1960 issue of Japan Architect, Tange presented a proposal for a mass human scale form that includes a megaform and discrete, rapidly changeable functional units which fit within the larger framework. He writes: Short-­lived items are becoming more and more ­short-­lived, and the cycle of change is shrinking at a corresponding rate. On the other hand, the accumulation of capital has made it possible to build in ­large-­scale operations. Reformations of natural topography, dams, harbors, and highways are of a size and scope that involve long cycles of time, and these are the man-­made works that tend to divide the overall system of the age. The two tendencies—toward shorter cycles and toward longer cycles—are both necessary to modern life and to humanity itself.2

Tange’s megaform concept depends largely on the idea that change will occur less rapidly in some areas than it will in others, and that the designer will be able to ascertain which of the functions he is dealing with falls in the longer cycle of change and which in the shorter. The question is: can the designer successfully base his concept on the idea that—to give an example—transportation methods will change less rapidly than the idea of a desirable residence or retail outlet? Sometimes the impact and momentum of technology become so great that a change occurs in the basic skeleton of the social and physical structure. It is difficult to predict into which part of a pond a stone will be thrown and which way

2.3 Megaform: Kenzo Tange’s 1960 proposal for Tokyo’s extension into Tokyo Bay.

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its ripples will spread. If the megaform becomes rapidly obsolete, as well it might, it will be a great weight about the neck of urban society. On the other hand, the ideal is not a system in which the physical structure of the city is at the mercy of unpredictable change. The ideal is a kind of master form which can move into ever new states of equilibrium, yet maintain visual consistency and a sense of continuing order in the long run. This suggests that a megastructure composed of several independent systems that can expand or contract with the least disturbance to others would be preferable to one composed of a rigid hierarchical system. In other words, each system that contributes to the whole maintains its identity and longevity without being affected by the others, while at the same time it engages in dynamic contact with the others. When an optimal relationship has been formed, an environmental control system can be devised. The system that permits the greatest efficiency and flexibility with the smallest organizational structure is ideal. A basic operation is necessary to establish this optimal control mechanism. It is to select proper independent functional systems and to give them optimal interdependency through the provision of physical joints at critical points. Although the megastructure concept has its problems, as outlined above, it also has great promise for several fields: 1.

2.

3.

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Environmental engineering. Megastructure development necessitates collaboration between structural and civil engineers. Possibilities for large spans, space frames, light skin structures, prestressed concrete, highway aesthetics, and earth forming will be developed far beyond their present level. Large-­scale climate control will be studied further. A new type of physical structure, environmental building, will emerge. Multifunctional structures. We have, thus far, taken it for granted that a building is designed to fulfill one specific purpose. In spite of the fact that the concept of multifunctionalism must be approached with caution, it does offer useful possibilities. Within the megaform structure we can realize combinations such as those in Kisho Kurokawa’s project, Agricultural City. Infrastructure as public investment. Substantial public investment can be made in infrastructures (the skeleton of megastructures) in order to guide and stimulate public structures around them. This strategy can be further extended to a new ­three-­dimensional concept of land use where public agencies will maintain the ownership and upkeep for both horizontal and vertical circulation systems.

Group Form

Group form is the last of the three approaches in collective form. Group form is form that evolves from a system of generative elements in space. Some of the basic ideas of group form can be recognized in historical examples of town buildings. Urban designers and architects have recently become interested in them because they appear to be useful and suggest examples for making ­large-­scale forms. Medieval cities in Europe, towns on Greek islands, and villages in North Africa are a few examples. The spatial and massing quality of these towns is worth consideration. Factors which determine the spatial organization of these towns are: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Consistent use of basic materials and construction methods as well as spontaneous but minor variations in physical expression; Wise and often dramatic use of geography and topography; Human scale preserved throughout the town (frequently in contrast to superhuman land forms); and Sequential development of basic elements such as dwellings, open spaces between houses, and the repetitive use of visual elements such as walls, gates, towers, open water, and so forth. The idea of sequential development has recently been explicated by Professor Roger Montgomery of Washington University, who sees a series of buildings or elements without apparent beginning or end as a contemporary compositional theme, distinct from the closed composition of forms characterizing classical or axial themes.

The sequential form, as seen in historical examples, developed over a period of time much longer than that in which contemporary cities have been built and rebuilt. In this sense, then, the efforts of contemporary urban designers are quite different from those of their historical counterparts, and the forms which they consciously evolve in a short timespan must accordingly differ. The lesson is, however, a useful one. A further inquiry of the basic elements, and particularly of the relationship between these elements and groups, reveals interesting principles involved in making collective form. In the past, many Japanese villages developed along major country roads. Houses are generally U‑shaped and juxtaposed against one another perpendicular to the road—they are basically ­court-­type row houses. The front part of the house

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is two stories high, and forms a tight continuous village façade together with other units. Behind it is an enclosed yard used for domestic work, drying crops, making straw, and so on. A barn is located at the other end of the house, and faces an open country field. There exists unquestionably a clear structural relationship between the village and the houses, between village activities and individual family life, and between the movement of villagers and cows. Here the house unit is the generator of the village form, and vice versa. A unit can be added without changing the basic structure of the village. The depth and frontage of the unit, or the size of the court or barn, may differ from unit to unit, but an understanding of basic structural principles in making the village prevails. Another example is ­sixteenth-­century Dutch housing. The Dutch have a reputation for living in communal units. Volunteer cooperation has long been promoted by limiting personal liberty through common obedience to self-­made laws. Their houses reflect this spirit. In Towns and Buildings, Steen Eiler Rasmussen describes: a ­stone-­walled canal with building blocks above it on each side, covered with houses built closely together and separated from the canal by cobbled roadways. The narrow, gabled ends of the houses face the canal and behind the deep houses are gardens. . . . Finally, just outside the houses is a special area called, in Amsterdam, the “stoep,” which is partly a pavement and partly a sort of threshold of the house.3

The stoep is actually part of the house, and the owner takes immense pride in maintaining it. It is also a social place where neighbors exchange gossip and children

2.4 Group form: the town of Hydra, Greece.

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play. By raising the ground floor of the house, it gives privacy to the residence even with large glass panes in front, and also reduces the load on pilings under the house. There is again a unity between canals and trees, paved roadways and stoeps, and large glass windows and rear gardens. A set of relationships has emerged through long experience and the wisdom of the people. Forms in group form have their own ­built‑in links, whether expressed or latent, so that they may grow within the system. They define basic environmental space which also partakes of the quality of systematic linkage. Group form and its space are indeed prototype elements, and they are prototypes because of the implied system and linkage. The elements and growth patterns are reciprocal—both in design and in operation. The elements suggest a manner of growth, and that in turn demands further development of the elements in a kind of feedback p­ rocess. On the other hand, the elements in megaform do not exist without a skeleton. The skeleton guides growth, and the elements depend on it. The elements of group form are often the essence of collectivity, a unifying force, functionally, socially, and spatially. It is worth noting that group form generally evolves from society rather than from powerful leadership. It is the village, the dwelling group, and the bazaar that are group forms in the sense we are using this term, not the palace complex, which is compositional in character. Can we, then, create meaningful group forms in our society? The answer is not a simple one. It requires new concepts and attitudes of design. It also requires the participation of cities and their social institutions. Remarks by two modern architects cast light on this definition of group form. The distinction between form and design was made by Louis Kahn in a speech at the World Design Conference in Tokyo in 1960. Kahn said on that occasion:

2.5 A Japanese linear village beautifully articulated along a spine of growth. Each of the units is composed of the same repetitive elements: a large communal entry, house, court, and fields to the rear.

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There is a need to distinguish “form” from “design.” Form implies what a building—whether it be a church, school, or house—would like to be, whereas the design is the circumstantial act evolving from this basic form, depending on site condition, budget limitation or client’s idea, etc.4

As soon as form is invented, it becomes the property of society. One might almost say that it was the property of society before its discovery. A design, on the other hand, belongs to its designer. John Voelcker, in his CIAM Team X report, commented on a similar subject. Referring to Oscar Hansen’s and Jerzy Soltan’s work in Poland, he said: “In an open aesthetic, form is a master key not of any aesthetic significance in itself, though capable of reciprocating the constant change of life. . . . Open aesthetic is the living extension of functionalism.”5 Both Kahn’s “form” and Voelker’s “open aesthetic” describe a form that would be a catalyst, that may become many forms rather than just a form for its own sake. Whereas they are speaking of it in an architectural idiom, we are interested in examining the form in a much larger context—collectivity in our physical environment. Nonetheless, both statements are significant in assuming that such a form can be created by architects today. It is relatively easy for someone to invent a geometric form and call it a group form because such a form has the characteristic of being multiplied in a sequential manner. But this is meaningless unless the form derives from environmental needs. Geometry is only a tool of search for group form. One cannot seek group form in hexagons and circles. James Stirling, in his article “Regionalism and Modern Architecture” in Architects’ Year Book 8, says:

2.6 New plan for ­Toulouse-­le-­Mirail, outside the city’s historical center, by ­Candilis-­Josic-­Woods.

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The application of orthogonal proportion and the obvious use of basic geometrical elements appear to be diminishing, and instead something of the variability found in nature is attempted. “Dynamic cellularism” is an Architecture comprising several elements, repetitive or varied. The assemblage of units is more in terms of growth and change than of mere addition, more akin to patterns of crystal formations or biological divisions than to the static rigidity of a structural grid. The form of assemblage is in contrast to the definitive architecture and the containing periphery of, for example, a building such as [the] Unité.6

One finds the source of generative elements in dynamic human terms such as “gathering,” “dispersal,” or “stop.” The human quality which determines form has to do with way of life, movement, and the relation between individuals in society. If the function of urban design is the pattern of human activities expressed in city life, then the functional patterns are crystallized activity patterns. Le Corbusier limits generative human qualities to “air,” “green,” and “sun,” while exponents of group form find a myriad of suggestive activities to add to that list. The visual implications of such crystallized patterns of human activity become apparent. The way in which one activity changes to another as people move from work to shopping to dining suggests physical qualities that are used to express transformation in design rhythm, change, and contrast. Characteristic spaces may be named in accordance with the way in which human groups use them—that is, transitional space, inward space, outward space, and so on. The addition of activities to physical qualities in a search for form determinants in the city suggests

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a new union between physical design and planning. The investigation of group form inevitably leads us to give our attention to regionalism in collective scale. Until recently, our understanding of regional expressions had very much been confined to those of single buildings. But in an age of mass communication and technological facility, regional differences throughout the world are becoming less well defined, and it is less easy to find distinctive expressions in building techniques and resultant forms. If materials and methods of construction or modes of transportation are becoming ubiquitous, perhaps their combinations, especially in large urban complexes, now reflect the distinguishing characteristics of the people and the places in which they are structured and used according to value hierarchies. Thus it may be possible to find regionalism more in collective scale and less in single buildings. The primary regional character in urban landscape will probably be in the grain of the city. Both group form and megaform affect the urban milieu at precisely this level. Homogenization of environment is not, as many people feel, the inevitable result of mass technology and communication. These very forces can produce entirely new products. With modern communication systems, one element (or cultural product) is soon transmitted to other regions, and vice versa. While each region uses a set of similar elements, each region can express its own characteristics in certain combinations of these elements. Here regionalism arises not from indigenous elements or products but, rather, from the manner in which such elements are valued and expressed. This suggests a concept of open regionalism, which is in itself a dynamic process of selecting and integrating vital forces. These forces, however, may conflict with inherent cultural values. Thus the genuine strength of different cultures can be tested and measured in this light. This is the thesis initially developed in collaboration with Roger Montgomery. In group form the possibility of creating grain elements, or regional qualities, exists. The reciprocal relationship between the generative elements and the system can produce strongly regional effects. In megaform it is a large form that represents all the power of technique, and that may represent the best aspects of regional selectivity. In coming decades the investigation of regional expression in collective scale will be one of the most important and fascinating issues of architecture and planning. Finally, these three approaches are models for thinking about possible ways to conceive large, complex forms. It is likely that in any final design form, these three concepts could be combined or mixed.

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L i n k a g e i n Collect ive F orm W r i t t e n i n collaborat ion wit h Jerry Goldber g

I n t r o d u c tio n

Investigation of collective form is important because it forces us to reexamine the entire theory and vocabulary of architecture, principally that of single buildings. For instance, the components of collective form, as conceived here, differ from the traditional elements of single structures. 1.

2.

3. 4. 5.

Wall: any element that separates and modulates space horizontally. Walls are places where outward and inward forces interact, and the manner of their interactions defines the form and functions of the wall. Floor or roof: any element that separates and modulates space vertically. In a broad sense, these terms include underground, ground, and water surfaces, and even elements floating in the air. Column: architecturally a supporter of gravitational loads, but environmentally an element that transfers certain functions—people, goods, and other things. Unit: a primary space in which some of the basics functions of human existence and society are contained and occur. Link: “linking” and “dissolving linkage” are invariant activities in making collec‑ tive form out of either discrete or associate elements. In operational terms there are a number of linkages—physically connected link, implying link, ­built‑in link, and so forth.

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Collective form also requires a new dimension in conceiving construction meth‑ ods and structural and mechanical systems. The aesthetics of collective form ne‑ cessitate new definitions of scale and proportion of buildings. Above all, this entire essay questions the very act of design in our society; it contains no answers, but seeks to ask the right questions and to draw out further discussion. The Unity o f Ex pe r ie nce

Observation is the primary tool of the urban designer. What he sees in the city he can relate to his own experience. Fact and observation are combined in order to comprehend new problems and to create new ­three-­dimensional solutions. The whole group of articles on collective form is a means of ordering observation. What the categories of analysis are is not of great importance. They provide a framework within which we can present extremely important observable phe‑ nomena in cities. Only through seeing accurately can we locate the specific results of forces in the city—forces that sociologists, economists, and novelists have de‑ scribed in other terms. We are fond of observing that our urban world is a complex one, that it changes with a rapidity beyond actual comprehension, and finally, that it is a dis‑ jointed world. At times in our urban lives we relish the diversity and disjointedness of cities and bask in their variety. Certainly cities have been the locus of human‑ kind’s most creative moments because of the varied experience they afford us. But when a plethora of stimuli begins to divert us from receptive conscious‑ ness, the city renders us insensible. Then, in our inability to order experience, we merely suffer the city and long for some adequate means to comprehend it as a product of human creation—a product of intelligent, ordering forces. Just as the scientist is frustrated when the order or pattern of phenomena is too fleeting to observe or too complex to recognize with existing tools, so is the city-­dweller frustrated when human order cannot be found in the environment. At such mo‑ ments, when one sees only the results of mechanical and economic processes controlling the form and feeling of place, one feels estranged and excluded. If urban design is to fulfill its role in making a contribution to the form of the city, it must do more than simply organize mechanical forces, and make physi‑ cal unity out of diversity. It must recognize the meaning of the order it seeks to manufacture: a humanly significant spatial order.

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I n t r o d u c tio n to L inkag e

Urban design is always concerned with the question of making comprehensible links between discrete things. Furthermore, it is concerned with making an ex‑ tremely large entity comprehensible by articulating its parts. The city is made of combinations of discrete forms and articulated large forms. It is a collective form— an agglomeration of past decisions (and abnegations of decisions) concerning the way in which things fit together or are linked. Linking and disclosing linkage (articulating the large entity) are integral activities in making collective form. With regard to historical examples of collective form, we should refer to the work of Aldo van Eyck, who finds in vernacular building a substantial clue to the natural process of human association in urban situations. Vernacular unit and link evolve together and appear in the end as a perfectly coordinated physical entity: a village or town. But one need not go to completely vernacular situations to discover examples of a similar character. Builders of the cities we admire—cities that we sense are good environments—have generally been generations of men and women working over decades, even centuries. We perceive what they have done in our limited span of study. More importantly, we must build in our own environment in an abbreviated time. One thing is certain: we have spent too little time observing the successes of our predecessors with an acute eye. Moreover, we probably do not approach par‑ ticular parts of our cities with sufficient understanding to extrapolate from them what is useful in human terms. It is one thing to grunt ecstatically in the presence of a significant work. It is another to learn what it can offer for the future. The specific subject of scrutiny here is linkage—in particular, the act of making linkage. In what follows, the business of putting things together is stud‑ ied in detail. First, there are examples of historical linkage. Each place and each moment has had its characteristic way of making coherent physical form. We are interested in how and why particular links were used. In the end, as designers, we are concerned with making collective form. The examples that follow have been discovered in a framework of operational definitions. Looking at these ex‑ amples, we must ask ourselves what the act of making a particular juncture among elements was, and how, theoretically, that act can be reproduced. This loosely operational framework is useful for purposes of analysis, but it does not work for an entire survey of material.

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It is perhaps a mistake to insulate types of links from one another by cat‑ egorizing them. The activity we are discussing is, after all, a singular one: that of making a comprehensible and humanly evocative urban environment. It is one of the primary theses of this study that once a link is established for any reason, it takes on a complicated secondary system of meanings and uses. Consider the stoep in Amsterdam, or Bologna’s arcades. One can see the medieval street bridges over the Via Ritorta in Perugia as an example of a link that began as a simple means for reinforcing structurally weak walls. The bridges, which connect two buildings at the ­second-­floor level, also serve to define “overhead” in the street, and to re‑ inforce the street spatially as a passageway. The bridges have all of these functions because they are repetitive along the street. It is no longer important which is the primary linkage and which the secondary. What does this study of historical linkage suggest for the future? Certainly this: whatever we use to determine the form of urban linkage in urban design must come from a body of largely untapped information about cities as we know them. We are involved in an investigation of the morphological results of forces now present in cities. And this too is certain: the primary motive is to make unity from diversity. There is diversity in every unit of sufficient scale to admit more than one function, or one angle of vision. That we have not previously adequately identified form-­giving forces is per‑ haps due to the fact that they seem to defy formulation. At a particular scale of urban activity, they have more to do with movement through space than with a standard vision of the shape of a space. Thus we have been notably remiss in our ability to conceive of shapes for paths of high-­speed movement or commercial clusters or power lines. Each of these things seems to defy relation to a human collective scale—their functional and social aspects seem diametrically opposed. Yet the Romans succeeded in making enduring aqueducts, and in the United States, TVA dams integrate functional and symbolic characteristics. If a garage can serve as an architectural stop between the moving world of a highway and the static world of a town center or shopping area, it can, if handled as Louis Kahn suggests, become a symbol of the collective and human aspect of what occurs in the town or the shops. Garages (or rapid transit stations) can be conceived as stops, as links between the highway (or train) and pedestrian movement. If they are designed with sufficient understanding, each can serve as a defining wall, or perhaps a built mountain, for the activity each links to the world of the highway.

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Another thing that seems destined for future consideration is the realization of a wholly new concept of ­three-­dimensional linkage. If we are successful at making unified and meaningful complexes of form and activity near the ground, we are notably unsuccessful at going into the air with linked functions. A high­r ise tower—for either apartments or offices—provides us with little integrated experience of its form, or of the excitement of rising through its many layers. Somehow, each deck of a tower or slab must be transparent to us, and each level of activity must be unique. Then, and only then, will we sense ­three-­dimensional linkage. This type of linkage is necessary because we have to construct more high buildings as land in our cities becomes scarcer. And this is possible because of our building techniques and our love of communication. Antonio Sant’Elia gave some indication of what t­hree-­dimensional linkage might look like as early as 1913. If we must learn to make use of our knowledge of ­short-­range movement, movement through cities from point to point, we must also attach a more subtle time concept, one that deals with the constant cycle of decay in cities. An urban dwelling lasts 84 years on average. If we allow all the old dwellings in a given area to become unsuitable for use at the same time, we are forced to declare extensive blight, clear hundreds of acres, and build new housing. There is, then, no link between such a cleared and renewed area and the city around it. People who, by choice or by force of economic circumstances, move into such developments feel isolation so keenly that they do not regard themselves as anything but “project” people. There is nothing less productive of cosmopolitan mixture than raw re‑ newal that displaces, destroys, and replaces in such a mechanical way. The cycle of decay can be a linking force in our cities. If it is recognized, it can provide an opportunity to replace old structures in an old environment with new structures, still in an old environment. Such diversity in age is itself a kind of linkage. It gives a morphological demonstration of the ever-­changing and diverse character of city life. It offers a new kind of choice to people in cities—the pos‑ sibility that one can live in a historically significant place, but in a new house. Our cities are fluid and mobile. But it is difficult to conceive of some of them as places, in the real sense of that word. How can an entity with no discernible be‑ ginning or end be a place? It is certainly more appropriate to think of a particular part of a city as a place. If it were possible to articulate each of the parts of the city more adequately, to give qualities of edge and node to now formless agglomerates, we would begin to make our large urban complexes at least understandable, if not easily visualized.

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By the same argument, the rapidity with which the urban system expands suggests that there must be some means of linking newly established parts with parts not yet conceived. In short, there is a need for something that may be termed “open linkage.” Such an idea is inherent in the linkage of group form. Links become integral parts of both unit and system and suggest that the system can be expanded indefinitely and with variation. The City as Patte r n o f Ev en t s

Linkage is simply the glue of the city. It is the act by which we unite all the layers of activity and resulting physical form in the city. Insofar as linkage is successful, the city is a recognizable and humanly comprehensible entity. We are at home in it. We depend on understanding how events in a city are combined to make a living sequence, and we depend on understanding how we can get from place to place in the city. Each at its own level contributes to our ability to know and enjoy experience—social, temporal, and spatial linkage. All of these kinds of linkage are described in physical terms in the analysis that follows. It is necessary to describe linkage in operational terms, to say what must be done to make a link. But each operation ends by suggesting a multitude of nonspatial facts. Ultimately, linking is assembling patterns of experience in cities. Ope r atio nal Cate g o r ie sw

There are five basic linking operations: to mediate, to define, to repeat, to make a sequential path, and to select. All of these terms need explanation using diagrams

2.7 Diagrams representing linkage operations (from left to right), mediation; definition; repetition; and making a sequential path.

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as well as text, and presenting examples of each type of linkage as evidence that each exists or could exist. Keep in mind that each type of linkage may be done in physical fact (as a wall or bridge between two buildings) or by implication (as in the carefully balanced composition of buildings and spaces on a site). Physical links may be introduced into form as external elements, and the designer thus produces an a‑a‑a‑a or a‑b‑c‑d pattern. On the other hand, they may appear as ­built‑in links. That is of particular consequence in group form, where integral link and unit are the basis of formal, functional, and structural results. Repetition and combination occur in accordance with the logic of the ­built‑in link. Implied links are used to compose elements in the landscape. Using either ­quasi-­mathematical standards, as in Italian Renaissance composition, or subjec‑ tively seeking combinations of void and solid that seem “right,” designers pro‑ duce (hopefully) compelling combinations. Space is an adhesive in compositional design. A paragon of this kind of composition should appear inevitable to all observers. The question of inevitability does not arise in most cases of contem‑ porary group form. Combinations of linkage and element can do no better than to express the process from which their growth in combination has come. All the ways of implying linkage—by composing, by injecting transitional elements, by surrounding disparate things—depend largely on some kind of homogeneity. If elements in ­large-­scale design are of the same order of magnitude (by virtue of mass, color, or surface quality), they become a “grain” or a texture. Elements of vastly different size are linked by implication only with difficulty. Transitional bits, or unifying surroundings, are frequently injected between them to make the implication strong and clear.

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To mediate: to connect with intermediate elements or imply connection by spaces that demonstrate the cohesion of masses around them. An interesting thing about mediation is that once done, it is almost impossible for an observer to assign a single cause for it. Mediation accomplished by adequate physical means con‑ notes multitudes of other transitions. It suggests that a link, properly conceived, changes with changing primary needs. The arcades of Bologna, for example, pro‑ vide shelter from sun and rain, and visual unity to the street. Steen Eiler Rasmus‑ sen, in “The Dutch Contribution,” says that the stoep is a place that is half house property, half public way. The house itself cannot be built upon the stoep but it may be used for the cellar entrance or for the stairway up to the high ground floor. The entrance staircases in Amsterdam are often works of art, carried out in magnificent bleu belge ­stone-­work which forms a striking contrast to the dark red brick of the house. . . . When not taken up by the stairway or other projections, the stoep is raised a step above the roadway and paved with fine tiles or other decorative facing.7

The stoep is a functional transition between the public way and the private house. It is conceptually the meeting of the family with the urban world, and it is visu‑ ally a means by which one sees the streetscape as an entity. From house to street, it is a link by mediation, and from house to house along the street, it is a link by repetition. To define: to surround a site with a wall or any other physical barrier and thus set it off from its environs. The wall around a medieval town says that everything inside it belongs and is different from everything outside. Putting a wall around elements implies a visual connection among them, even though they have nothing in common. A wall may be many things, such as a loop of rapid transit tracks in the heart of Chicago, or a ring of parking structures in Louis Kahn’s proposal for Philadelphia. Depending on its nature and location, a wall may be either oppressive and confining or pleasantly protective. Walls in African villages on the plains are a welcome relief from the endless vistas that otherwise occupy the inhabitants’ gazes. To repeat: to link by introducing one common factor in each of the dispersed parts of a design or existing situation.That common factor may be formal, material,

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functional, or historical. Perhaps the best-­understood example of this kind of link occurs in Italian hill towns which may be identified by the hundreds of private defensive towers standing above the house tops. A more subtle example of repeti‑ tion as a linking device is in what Kevin Lynch has called the “grain.”8 If the plan of an urban place reveals clusters of buildings which have spaces between them of a common size and shape, we see such a cluster as just that: a cluster of elements relating to one another in a way different from the way those of other buildings in the vicinity do. They are an identifiable group in plan because they have a peculiar grain or pattern. On the ground one perceives the same unity because of the repetitive size of building and size of space between the masses of buildings. The only difference between this situation and the compositional means of linking by implication is that this repetition need not be a case of intent. Grain occurs in the historic buildup of an area because the use of the buildings is similar, the style of building in a given time is similar, and the amount of space deemed adequate between them is similar. To make a sequential path: to arrange buildings or parts of multiuse buildings in a sequence of useful activity. Further, to reinforce such a path by any means nec‑ essary to propel persons along a general designated path. Finally, to design a path or reinforce a path in the natural landscape which will catalyze and give direction to new development along its course. Designers make sequences of functions on paper, connect them with arrows, and establish the logic of the flow diagram. In some cases the ­three-­dimensional realization of that diagram is a building in which each symbol has become a room and the arrows have become doors. The case we are interested in, however, is one in which each symbol is a place at the scale of a building. The arrows then become ­three-­dimensional paths between buildings or progressions through the megaframe that contains ­quasi-­buildings. A large multifunctional structure may be described as a frame that contains many discrete ­quasi-­buildings (or monofunctional structures) and a transportation system for going from one function to another within the frame. Such a symbiotic entity is an example of a ­three-­dimensional activity sequence. The temporal sequence sometimes becomes so long that it overwhelms the visual aspects of an activity path. A two- or ­three-­month temple pilgrimage on Shikoku Island can be seen as a kind of activity sequence—it is a linked experience. The afterimage of some 88 temples and rituals is a demonstrable residue of the activity.

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To select: to establish unity in advance of the design process by choice of site. The designer may preselect a link for a ­large-­scale project. That is, he may choose a piece of land for a town (or an element in the town) prominent enough both to affect his design and to be a unifying visual force when the project is built. Obvious examples of this kind of situation exist in towns like Miletus and Priene in Turkey. We frequently identify an area in a larger context by referring to some overriding topographical feature, such as Russian Hill in San Francisco. Unfortu‑ nately, designers infrequently utilize the formal potential of land in contemporary America.

2.8 Plan of Miletus, an ancient Greek city on the Turkish mainland. The town is defined by the limits of the peninsula, where it was sited for reasons of defense.

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Ti me a n d L a n d sc ape: Collectiv e Form at Hillside Ter r ace

The Hillside Terrace project, a ­medium-­density ­mixed-­use development of apartments, shops, restaurants, and cultural facilities, took exactly ­twenty-­five years from the first plans I drew in 1967 to the completion of its sixth phase in 1992. Although I have designed buildings and complexes far greater in physical scale over the past several decades, no other project has occupied my thoughts so continuously over time as Hillside Terrace has. The flow of time can be measured against its diverse buildings and their relationship to the city of Tokyo as it grew to envelop them. Changes in the project’s architectural character, materiality, and expression from phase to phase also reflect shifts in my own consciousness with the passage of time. The opportunity to design Hillside Terrace—a commission I received almost immediately after setting up my architectural practice in Tokyo— was my first chance to confront the idea of modern architecture engaging, even creating, its urban context. Though I was unaware of it at that time, the project would bring me a deeper understanding of the “collective form” phenomenon that had fascinated me in my early years of architectural study, strengthening the notion that architecture and cities share a distinct relationship to time. In the mid-­1960s, the Daikanyama district still retained traces of the wooded hills for which the greater Musashino region was once known. After each rain, the air was heavily laden with earthy scents. Zelkova trees rose high over the low townscape. Downtown Tokyo, though geographically close, was still perceived as a distant place. It was in this context that my clients, the Asakura family, who for many generations had owned a 250‑meter-­long strip of land along Daikanyama’s main road, asked me to design a number of apartments and shops to be built in separate phases. I was still in my late thirties when I started on Hillside Terrace,

2.9 Aerial view of Daikanyama, with buildings of Hillside Terrace highlighted.

Phase III 1977

Royal Danish Embassy 1979

Phase IV 1985 (Motokura Associates) Phase II 1973 Phase I 1969

Phase V 1987 Hillside Plaza

2.10

Phase VI 1992

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Hillside Terrace site plan.

and I felt quite fortunate to be given the opportunity to design several buildings on a single site at that age. I realized that in designing a group of buildings, I could also generate exterior public spaces of a particular character. The issue to be addressed in Hillside Terrace’s first phase, which was located in the southernmost part of the property where the lot was relatively thin, was the deployment of space along the street. The formal vocabulary was typical of modern urban design of the time and included such features as a corner plaza, a small transparent lobby serving several ­g round-­floor shops, a sunken garden, a raised pedestrian deck, and ­maisonette-­style duplex apartments. More than any individual feature, however, what impressed most people about the project was its laconic, abstract geometrical character. A low, horizontally extended ensemble of white masses arranged along a fairly wide street was still a rare sight in Tokyo in 1969, and perhaps that added to the novelty of the landscape. The second phase, completed four years after the first, was separated from the earlier structures by a parking lot. It, too, was an instance of ­street-­oriented architecture, and the deepening of this portion of the property allowed for a small enclosed plaza with shops surrounding it on all sides. However, circumstances had changed in the four years that had elapsed: the surrounding district had developed more commercial activity, my clients had modified their program, and my own design consciousness had evolved. These changes were readily apparent in the design of the new building. I was still very much in favor of incremental planning, and if I felt the consequence of time’s flow in the new design, it was only in the context of such external forces. With the design of the third phase, however, I began to incorporate more overt gestures to mark the passage of time. The new building facing the main street, for example, was given a tiled façade and spatial configuration deliberately different from those of the previous two phases. Shops were interiorized, and the inner courtyard thus preserved as a quiet space of greenery, centered on an ancient burial mound that had been preserved on the site. The formal departures of the third phase created a more heterogeneous complex—the character of the architecture and space changed perceptibly as people walked from one end of the site to the other. The trend toward heterogeneity would continue in a different way in the fourth phase, which consists of two small office buildings, together known as the Hillside Annex. Located facing each other across a sloping side street, these are the

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2.11 Daikanyama in the mid-­1960s. 2.12 Entrance plaza, phase one.

2.13

Street façade, phase two.

2.14 View to inner courtyard, phase two.

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work of Makoto Motokura, who opened his own architectural office after having supervised the ­third-­phase construction at my office. Not surprisingly, Motokura employed a design method different from his mentor’s. Each of his two buildings possesses a clear geometry and is more closed in character when compared to earlier structures at Hillside Terrace. I believe in the value of such an intervention, which creates a formal dialogue. Groups of buildings generated in such a way may be the most desirable kind of collective form in a city. In the years that followed, I designed an embassy for the Danish government on a site immediately north of the ­third-­phase buildings as well as a small ­fifth­phase project, an underground event space known as Hillside Plaza. Both of these projects preserved the scale and spatial flow of the original three phases. Yet by the time I began work on the sixth and final phase some years later, in the late 1980s, Daikanyama had undergone a dramatic change in character. What had previously been a quiet residential neighborhood was quickly becoming a bustling ­mixed-­use district—partly due to increased traffic and a rezoning of the district to eliminate the previous 10‑meter height restriction and increase its ­floor-­area ratio (FAR). At the start of the sixth phase, I had many thoughts about what should be expressed and what sort of landscape should be created. With the development of three new buildings on the final piece of land owned by the Asakura family, across the street from all the previous phases, I wanted to re-­create, in a sense, the landscape of white masses surrounded by greenery that had existed at the completion of the first phase. The new site, however, was surrounded not by trees but, rather, by a more typical urban fabric of buildings; so new trees would need to be introduced within it. The urge to re-­create that original whiteness, long since vanished in the weathered ­first-­phase buildings, suggested to me another finish treatment: a combination of reflective aluminum panels, white ceramic tile, and paint. The building mass was treated in such a way as to create an overall impression of lightness, since the sixth phase, with its greater height and volume, was apt otherwise to seem disproportionately large compared to earlier phases. A prominent eave line was created at a height of ten meters to echo the heights of previous phases across the street.

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2.15 Greenery centered on an ancient burial mound, phase three.

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Courtyard, phase six.

Pub l i c Space

Spatial character usually determines what is public in the city. A metropolis can provide overwhelming spaces unavailable in small cities or villages. However, public spaces in cities do not exist just for crowds or communities; they are also places that allow people to enjoy solitude. Our urban spaces become much richer when there are many different layers of public spaces and meanings. In a metropolis, people take strolls, just as people in the countryside go to mountains or rivers; in that way, they are able to establish a special, spatial relationship between themselves and portions of the city. The extent to which streets and other public spaces suitable for walking are provided can be considered an effective index in determining the quality of urbanity in a city. Sadly, the contemporary city is being gradually divested of such public character. There are certain limits to the types of spaces that an architect can provide; at best, the spaces they design can form a relationship with parts of the city bordering on the site to create landscapes that many people can share. Cities like Tokyo today possess few standards of urban form. Architects are required to create new landscapes in an urban environment full of heterogeneous elements. The challenge is the same whether the project in question is a single building or a complex of buildings: the creation of topos in the city through the medium of landscape. Looking back, I believe that the process that led from Hillside Terrace’s first phase to the sixth phase suggests not only the changes in our notion of public space and the evolution of modernism, but also what I would call “the landscape of time.” The singular sense of place that people strolling among the various buildings and outdoor spaces of Hillside Terrace feel is no accident. It is the result of a deliberate design approach that has created continuous unfolding sequences of spaces and views, taking advantage of the site’s natural topography and, indeed, enhancing it with subtle shifts in the architectural ground plane. The various green areas, plazas, sunken gardens, exterior stairs, sidewalks, and transparent entrance halls are interconnected by views to one another, giving an impression of substantial depth and extent across the site. One does not physically experience urban space by simply gazing at buildings or looking at them from above—space is experienced only through sequential movement. Like music, movement in space can be a source of elemental joy, something to which one can give oneself up entirely.

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2.17 Diagram showing layers of space.

2.18 Creation of sense of depth through the layers of space, phase six.

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At Hillside Terrace, long views pass through multiple spatial boundaries created by topography, stairs, roads, trees, and low walls. Several possible loops are offered for passage through the site and back to the street, and glimpses of greenery seen around the corner are just as important as fully transparent views for suggesting a path. Although their architectural expression has varied in response to the times, the buildings of phases one through six share a consistent scale of massing, using a combination of staggered, cubical volumes, generally one and two stories tall, with apartment blocks frequently lifted above street level on transparent and/or recessed ­ground-­floor volumes. Several unifying spatial elements, such as corner entrances and interior stairs echoing exterior topography, are repeated in different guises to create a sense of continuous townscape while allowing localized variations. Within such an evolving framework, I have viewed each individual building design from the perspective of its urban presence and meaning—aiming to discover in this process a modern language for the creation of group form. During the ­quarter-­century of its design, gradual shifts occurred not only in the architectural language of Hillside Terrace but also in its use. Having developed extensive and inviting open space throughout the site, the owners felt strongly that the project should not be limited to commercial and residential uses, and so, in later phases, they introduced a number of cultural programs to be hosted there. The large underground hall of the ­fifth-­phase Hillside Plaza, used for events such as musical performances and exhibitions, is one example. An additional multipurpose hall intended for similar programs and gatherings was incorporated into the design of the sixth phase, facing a ­ground-­level plaza and adjacent to a café serving as catering and overflow space for those events. In these and other ways, the programming of the Daikanyama property has been adapted to meet the perceived demand for increasingly varied public use. Hi l l si de Te r r ace i n Co nte xt

Although modest in scale, with all six phases covering only 1.1 hectares, Hillside Terrace has been recognized as one of postwar Tokyo’s best examples of urban design. The history of its design in distinct phases shows the project both anticipating and adapting to lifestyles of the times. Over those ­twenty-­five years, the surrounding area of Daikanyama became extensively redeveloped. Different

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2.19 Multipurpose hall, phase six.

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Art gallery, phase six.

buildings, many of them designed with Hillside Terrace in mind, have together formed a townscape. As a result, a district has been created with an ambience unique in Tokyo. At the same time, no urban design project of similar character or quality has since been realized in Japan, although it would seem an easy enough example to follow, and despite the fact that many communities and local governments have expressed eagerness to do so. Why? The answer lies partly in conditions unique to this project: until the late 1980s, the district had been designated for “first-­class residential” use with a maximum building height of ten meters and an FAR of just 1.5—an unusual condition in Tokyo for any site along a broad, tree-­lined street such as ­Yamate-­dori. It is also uncommon in Tokyo for such a large, integrated parcel of land in a residential district along a public street to be held by a single owner and yet not developed all at once. The fact that development took place over ­twenty-­five years was due to an initial shortage of capital—yet this condition proved an immense advantage, enabling the client and the architect to adapt at each stage to the rapidly changing environment and lifestyle of Tokyo and to offer fresh designs, both programmatically and architecturally. If the development had been undertaken by interests with deeper pockets, such a slow pace of construction would not have occurred; nor would the resulting townscape have reflected the gradual passing of time, as it does now, even if the project had been left to the same architect. There may have been other factors and fortuitous circumstances contributing to Hillside Terrace’s success, but the three conditions mentioned here were unique to this project and have never been duplicated since. This demonstrates that the framework for urban design in metropolitan Tokyo is enormously varied, and that urban design as a skill requires commensurate precision and delicacy, as well as a great deal of sheer luck. Before the Industrial Revolution, architects and master carpenters were responsible for the communities in the districts where they lived; they learned the essential nature of architecture through the slow, steady passage of time. I have been fortunate to work over a long period of time in Daikanyama; even today, long after the project’s completion, I continue to be involved with Hillside Terrace and in broader neighborhood activities, including the preservation of the old Asakura Residence. Some members of my family now live and work in Hillside

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2.21

Terrace, and so I have reason to visit frequently. Over time, I have come to think of the buildings I have designed there as extensions of myself. What is the nature of an urban community today? How does human behavior respond to space? Where do buildings first begin to show signs of age? Hillside Terrace has provided me with daily opportunities to learn the answers to such questions. As buildings become bigger and projects become more dispersed over the globe, architectural experiences such as those I have had in Daikanyama become ever more valuable. It is in such experiences that both love for architecture and fear for its future are born.

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On the City

3

C i ty a n d M o d e r n i sm

The Char acte r o f Pl ace i n a C ity

Ever since I was a child, the city has had something of the character of an outland—that is, a faintly alien environment. Unlike the ­present-­day city, Tokyo at the beginning of the Showa period had many dark, secret places. Disneyland and vast atriums did not yet exist, but places in the immediate environment appealed to a child’s sense of adventure. There were shadows, especially in the ­still-­verdant districts where large estates or temples were clustered, and wooden houses and stone paving also created areas of darkness. Compared with villages or wooded mountains, where shadows were mostly cast by objects in nature, Tokyo, of course, had a more human character. One could stand on the street and see into the inner depths of many merchant houses. One smelled food, heard dogs barking and workmen making things, and at times caught a glimpse of some pale, consumptive woman sitting up in her futon in a back room. Such incidents all reinforced the alien character of the city. Unlike a village, Tokyo was an endless series of overlapping scenes, and I could even imagine a frontier starting just beyond my vision. It was not so much a physical world as a world of the imagination, a world that could expand at any time in new directions. The twisting passageway through a display of figures created out of chrysanthemums, the dim interior of a German circus tent, the mazelike spaces in a foreign ship moored in Yamashita Wharf in Yokohama—these out-­of‑the-­ordinary experiences gave an added dimension to the city of my memory. The city, to the extent that I was familiar with it, was full of highly concentrated places and was by no means a domain susceptible to conceptual or abstract manipulation. Later, after I entered

the field of architecture and urban design, such experiences provided a starting point for understanding and developing urban spaces. I am not referring simply to urban spaces in Tokyo, for the principles discovered in Tokyo were applicable to cities throughout the world. The early 1960s were for me a time of intensely felt experiences, when I gradually developed a point of view with respect to architecture and the city. Through my travels abroad, my studies in the United States, and my participation in design conferences, I came to see that individual buildings could indeed give a place its identity, and that buildings collectively could give a distinctive character to a domain. Such thinking was at odds with the prevailing approach to city planning, which was to impose character from the top down. In the United States in the 1950s and the early 1960s, I personally witnessed and experienced the emergence of a mass society produced by advanced capitalism. Yet that society began to entertain doubts about itself as the social contradictions generated by the full development of capitalism became apparent. The Lonely Crowd by David Riesman, Nathan Glazer, and Reuel Denney, which provided a brilliant analysis of urbanites and organization men in a mass consumption society and explored new alternatives, made a strong impact upon publication.1 Among intellectuals, the most actively debated question was the nature of individual identity. Needless to say, the urban hardware for this new industrial society was being created by modernism. City planning ideas based on modernist ideology—crystallized in CIAM’s Athens Charter—were starting to be criticized by American authors such as Kevin Lynch and Jane Jacobs, and by European architects such as Aldo van Eyck and Alison and Peter Smithson. I was inevitably drawn to the issue of identity in a mass society and the search for ways in which cities might accommodate individual places with identity. My interest in the question of the whole and the parts—in the collective form and the elements that make up a collective form—was nurtured by the cultural and social conditions of the times. P o rt e n t s o f an Info r mati o n So ci e ty

In May 1968, a massive student protest broke out in Paris, inspiring revolts on other university campuses across the world. At the time, after eight years at Washington and Harvard Universities, I was doing less teaching and was increasingly engaged

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in design work in Tokyo. Nevertheless, the confrontation with the younger generation I experienced at Harvard, the year before universities in Japan erupted in protest, had an enormous impact on me. For one thing, as an architect and urban designer who had just entered his forties, I had thought of myself as relatively young, even though I was not by any means ­avant-­garde. The emergence of a younger generation with entirely different, revolutionary values as a result of the student unrest, therefore, came as quite a shock. Although it was not clear what their ultimate aims were, or how they actually proposed to achieve an architectural revolution, the very fact that members of the younger generation were demanding that they too be heard seemed to me quite significant. Much of that passion, however, dissipated in ten years’ time, at least in the architectural world. Those years seemed placid after all the unrest, but the peace was deceptive and bittersweet for the older generation. The end of the period of intensive economic growth, brought about by the energy crises in the early 1970s, had a more direct impact on the city and the way the city was viewed than the student revolution. Portents of the postindustrial society were becoming evident in the city. It was around this time that the concentration of so‑called knowledge industries began in cities hitherto dependent on heavy industries, and office buildings began to occupy a central place in the new urban typology. It was also a time when various environmental problems that Japanese metropolises had come to face as the result of intensive growth began to make themselves felt on a global scale. A major contradiction of the consumer society became apparent: that those who participate in the benefits of the city are both perpetrators and victims of its ecological degradation. In the mid-­1960s I opened an office in Tokyo and concentrated on design. With the support of many friends and through the efforts of my staff, I was able to get my practice on track from the start. Early in my career I had reflected on—and occasionally made declarations about—the kind of places a city ought to have. Now, I was considering what form architecture ought to take in order to create such places and putting my ideas into practice, and it was quite fulfilling. My work gradually diversified: my architectural commissions included public and private elementary and junior high schools, housing, a community center, and a branch bank office. In addition, through commissioned studies of urban design, I had many opportunities to involve myself with the city on a neighborhood level. I felt I was able to deal

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with the abovementioned contradictions, at least within the limited scope of such projects. Even as fears about the future of Tokyo were gradually coming true, there was still a stability and a gentleness about the environment in the city at the end of the 1960s that suggested the possibility of a dialogue between architecture and its surroundings. As the phrase “ethnic Tokyo” (coined by the architectural historian Hidenobu Jinnai) implies, Tokyo, though a modern city, still had in common with other Asian metropolises a relaxed, informal quality. A truly contextual architecture, if such a thing were possible, would have been the translation into form and space of the hopes and expectations that a regional society entertained of a city. Still a modernist as far as my architectural vocabulary was concerned, I believed it was possible to respond to, or comment on, the given urban context using a modern architectural vocabulary. That was one of the means available to create community architecture. It was my belief that an approach to design grounded in personal experience would eventually restore power and identity to the various parts of the city. However, the larger city stood in the way. When an architect sets limits on the themes and the areas with which he deals, then a closed circuit is established, albeit temporarily, between his work and the city. Shutting oneself off from the outer world often makes it possible to explore the world of art in greater depth. The pleasure of the art of sukiya,2 for example, is probably derived from the autosuggestion inherent in such a world. In this period, an empirical approach to the city seemed to me valid. If there was another turning point, it was occasioned by the turnabout in the perception of the city, which I will now discuss. T h e C i t y a s a Wo r l d o f Symb o l s

The transformation of the social, economic, and cultural system—often described as the advent of a postindustrial society—gathered pace. The Vietnam War, the student unrest, and the energy crises had erupted as unexpectedly as the 1991 Gulf War was to do. They can be seen as the inevitable conclusions to historical circumstances, but like the weather, the market, or population statistics, they were not events that could be forecast precisely. The postindustrial global metamorphosis did not trigger any of these events, strictly speaking, but these events undoubtedly helped to accelerate the transformation of society.

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In the process of this metamorphosis, Japanese cities, especially metropolises such as Tokyo, experienced cataclysmic changes that affected their very nature. One was the destruction and loss of the classical community, particularly in the inner areas. In ethnically diverse cities in the United States, once-­stable communities had been turning into slums even before the war and were gradually being destroyed. By comparison, local communities still survived in so‑called “low-­city” and “high-­city” districts in Tokyo in the 1960s. In Japan, which quickly succeeded in converting to the economy of a postindustrial society, a concentration of knowledge industries in metropolises began anew amid unprecedented economic prosperity. Vacillating land policies by successive governments and a skewed tax system that imposed excessive taxes on inheritance exacerbated the problem. As the price of prosperity, Tokyo, which has a dispersed polycentric structure found nowhere else in the world, began to suffer the loss of the very communities that had given it an urban character. Local conditions distinctive to Japanese cities accelerated the loss of community, but the process could be seen as part of an inevitable global development— that is, the emergence of a mass society, or what Riesman had called “the crowd,” as the consequence of modern capitalism. It was a time in which a number of important questions were being asked. If the gradual loss of community since the 1970s was an irreversible process, was there anything else that could take its place and provide cohesion, or were we fated to stand by helplessly as the classical city came to an end? A number of things were happening in my life in the late 1970s. In 1979, I became a member of the faculty at my alma mater, Tokyo University. Although my design activities did not cease, I was engaged once more in teaching and research, this time for ten years, until my retirement from the university in 1989. During that time, I had the opportunity to consider and discuss issues with students and researchers and to encounter new friends, inside and outside the university. In my practice, work included buildings such as art museums and gymnasiums that addressed the entire city rather than just the local community. In 1978, I published an essay entitled “The Japanese City and Inner Space,” my first analysis of traditional urban spaces, or rather, of the mental image the Japanese have had of cities and the way they have tried to translate that into reality. Until then, I had been concerned primarily with the individual parts and their

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place within the whole, and this was an attempt to reexamine from the viewpoint of cultural and ethnic history the semantic structure behind urban form. This essay was a rejection of the a priori adoption of community as the cohesive force organizing the parts and the whole and any attempt to effect a convergence, vertically, of the parts and the whole. It was instead an effort to reconsider the overall semantic structure of the city: to ask, if symbolic values transcending direct function or necessity are what makes a city citylike in form in any given society, how such values are created, and what kind of symbolic meanings need to be attached to form. Many young scholars and researchers began to analyze Tokyo around that time. Such analyses were motivated not by nostalgia but by a need to ask once more exactly what a city is, or was, before the surviving fragments of the old city have disappeared completely. Philosophically and intellectually, modernism had been the force driving culture in industrial societies since the nineteenth century. But to the extent that our postindustrial society is defined by its very critique of earlier industrial society (hence compelling a qualitative change in culture), this society has been critical of modernism as well. It was at this point in our history that postmodernism emerged. While in the broadest sense we are living in a postmodern society today, the ­quasi-­historicist architectural movement known as postmodernism had a shorter existence; it was fated to consume itself through the individuation and differentiation of images inherent in a consumer society because, ultimately, it had nothing to express. The fact that many works of architecture remained superficial rhetorical gestures was a sign of the enervation of culture. Mass society and doctrinaire modernism had produced monotonous, uniform urban spaces. Postmodernism, which emerged in opposition to that development, was itself unable to resolve the contradictions in contemporary society. Earlier I stated that an external condition—the destruction of communities in contemporary cities—was responsible for changing my viewpoint with respect to architecture and the city, but in fact the change was not forced simply by external circumstances. Postmodernism ultimately did fall into an endless cycle of self-­consumption, but did that mean that all symbolic values of architecture had in fact been consumed? Certainly, superficial images had been manipulated to death, but there is a domain to architecture that can never be totally exhausted. That domain, I believe, is space—or, more precisely, urban space. Space, as a reflection

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of the city’s (or society’s) will to live, has a strength and nobility that can never be entirely consumed. In many great historical cities, a stable relationship between two types of architecture—symbolic, public buildings (churches, government facilities, ­residences of the powerful) and vernacular, private houses—once established a static order. Contemporary cities have destroyed that relationship; architectural symbolism has devolved into mere signage for consumption. So what can now supply the cohesion necessary to connect individual elements or domains in the city? One answer to that question may be the creation of spaces that possess, both internally and externally, a public character symbolic of the times. That may account for the present tendency for individual buildings to internalize the city. Moreover, public spaces in the contemporary city can by no means be identified typologically, as in historical cities. The forms of expression are multidimensional, and the semantic structure is multilayered. Private and public are no longer antithetical concepts. In the world of logic, there is no way out of a paradox. Urban space, however, has the power at times to resolve a paradox. These inferences must eventually be corroborated by the act of design. Designing a multidimensional, polysemous network of public spaces will suggest an image of the city of the future, just as Nolli’s map of ­eighteenth-­century Rome provided an image of the classical city. Perhaps such a network will correspond in some way to the deep structure of society. The city as a slightly alien environment, as a collective form, as a representation of community, and as a multidimensional, multilayered space of communication— these notions were discovered in my efforts to better understand the city. Just as the observation by scientists of the material world or distant astronomical bodies yields clues to the principles of the physical world, so the study of the city shows architects and urban designers that behind myriad urban phenomena lies the source of creation. My own modernism has been defined by the way I have approached and tried to tap that wellspring.

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My Ci t y: T h e A c q uisit ion of M ental Landscape s

A cold wind blows through the canyons of New York on this day toward the end of Novem‑ ber 1975, but faint rays of light break through the clouds and illumine the leaves of trees on the street. It is a typically quiet Sunday afternoon in late autumn. The sidewalks are empty except for the occasional shadow of someone walking past solemn façades of metal and stone. With the woods of Central Park visible several blocks away to the right, I cross Fifth Avenue and arrive at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. The dimly lit entrance hall and the bookshop to the right are crowded. The sculpture garden lies beyond the glass screen straight ahead. Above the wall of the garden can be seen the faintly blue sky. There are not too many other places in the middle of Manhattan where one can see the sky at such a low angle of elevation. The sculpture by Moore, the Bertoia chair, the bronze nude with a hand on her hip—everything is as it should be, as far as I am concerned, on this afternoon in New York. In the mid-­1950s, after completing my studies at the Graduate School of Design at Harvard, I lived for nearly a year in a ­fourth-­floor apartment in an old brownstone not so far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That apartment, though a long and narrow studio, had French casement windows that opened onto a balcony with a fancy stone balustrade. When the curtains were drawn, the red brick building of a private elementary school was visible across the street. The apartment was within a reasonable walking distance of the architectural office on 57th Street where I was then working. One block east of Fifth Avenue was Madison Avenue, which was lined with stores, restaurants, and art galleries. There was always something on that street to intrigue pedestrians. The seemingly commonplace area around my apartment, Madison Avenue, the office where I worked, and the neighborhood of the Museum of Modern Art were, for me, New York.

Since that time, there has been a sea change in every aspect of America, from its political and economic environment to its arts and lifestyles. However, this part of New York—or, to be more precise, the relationship between this part of New York and myself—has, strangely, stayed on an even keel. The relationship that existed between citizens of a Greek city-­state and the agora or, alternatively, the significance of a medieval castle or fortified wall for those who lived within it, has no equivalent in the contemporary city. In the Baroque period, boulevards with splendid vistas were laid in cities. These boulevards created new—one might say painterly—landscapes; but at the time, they were expressions of authority intended to benefit a privileged class. Most citizens still lived in the remains of medieval cities cloven by those boulevards. Cities began to have multiple meanings for the first time, and the gap between meaning and form widened, heralding the end of the city as pure form. Being a citizen no longer guaranteed the establishment of a certain relationship with the city. To put it another way: the relationship was henceforth determined not by the city but by each individual. To those who have no interest in it, the city is basically transparent. Because the city is transparent, people can pass through it without negative consequences. Each citizen must construct his own special relationship to various small parts of the seemingly chaotic, contextless city of today. The contemporary city is a unique reality for each individual. The landscape does not exist as such; it must be conceptualized and constructed by a subject. Jonathan Raban has written of his experience in London: I’ve never in the past been so territorially possessive, so conscious of walls and boundaries. It is not just that city life hems us in so closely together that we develop the aggressive animal’s protective instincts towards our own scraps of space; it is rather that the stranger in one’s hall or on the pavement outside is so strange, so culturally different from oneself, so much a member of clubs and castes to which one has no access, that his presence continually forces one to question one’s own identity.1

People naturally seek to establish a stable relationship with a city that has a solid architectural framework, such as New York or London. Yet the territory which an individual can identify as his own is quite limited in extent. I imagine that the territory I could identify would not have increased fivefold had I lived in New

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York for five years instead of one. It would not have been that different from the domain with which I was acquainted at the end of a year. There is something almost carnal about the sense of territoriality. A territory is a thing that is “entered” and that wraps itself around the individual. One’s territory—consisting of home, the area around the home, and scattered places at some distance from the home—has not become larger today, though the relationship to that territory may have become deeper. The contemporary urbanite, caught up in the seemingly spectacular, complex, and enormous phenomena of the city, is able to acquire from all that only small scattered domains. Knitting these small domains into a text of one’s own is an art each individual is given an opportunity to practice. With the help of small clues, the urbanite avidly acquires and establishes his own territory. Thresholds are always delicate places, where even small landmarks begin to possess meaning. The skies over New York and the lights twinkling in countless high-­r ise apartment windows indicate the presence of thresholds between the primary domains of occupants and the world of perfect strangers. When the curtain is closed over a window, the occupants can reject even that final possibility of contact. When night passes and dawn eventually arrives, the city begins its existence all over again, as if it had totally forgotten the events of yesterday. Gifted writers and artists have continued to depict the city, offering us acute perceptions and rich emotions. However, a historical change has clearly taken place in literature and art as well. The medieval city—for example, the London of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales—was a whole enclosed by a wall. Like a home, it was closed at night. In paintings of the time that show urban landscapes, an attempt was often made to show the meaning of the city as a whole. The bird’s-­eye view was an effective method of depiction. In the Renaissance, the discovery of perspective made possible the more accurate depiction of cityscapes, but that also led to a gradual shift in interest toward the relationship between the observer and the object. With the destruction of the city’s overall social image, the faithful description of the parts of the city became the goal. Eventually, the question became not how one saw the city but what one saw from a subjective, secular point of view. Despite magnificent developments in the art world—the depiction of urban manners by the Impressionists and ukiyo‑e artists; the emergence of Social Realism; the development of the world of Cubism; and in the postwar world, the arrival

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of Pop Art, that most powerful expression of the secular city—there have been repeated reversions to old urban images motivated by nostalgia; the contemporary city continues to inspire surprise, doubt, introspection, and experiment. The old Yamanote district of Tokyo was still a quiet residential quarter with abundant greenery when I was growing up there in the early part of the Showa era. The entire area became a world of silence whenever it snowed. Yet on the thoroughfare where the streetcars ran and at the bottom of the hill, small shops clustered together much as they do now and created an atmosphere more like that of the Shitamachi or “low city.” Places to play near home existed for children, and when on occasion one traveled a bit further on a bicycle, one discovered secret places. Each child developed what the critic Takeo Okuno has called a “primary landscape.”2 However, Tokyo has undergone a radical transformation in the last several decades, compared with New York or London. Expressways have intruded into areas where there used to be no roads. Neighborhoods have been divided, and high-­r ise buildings have begun to sprout on both sides of widened streets. Hills have been leveled and greenery has been much reduced. We have been reduced to seeking traces of the past in the hillsides, walls, and old trees that still remain. There are places that live on only in names such as Kurayamizaka, Gohontsuji, and Tansumachi. When even those memories are erased by new systems of addresses, then one is forced to resort to forms of “acquisition” as far as the formation of territory or mental landscapes in the contemporary city is concerned. Compared with New York, Tokyo is a disorderly, relaxed city, whose architectural framework offers few constraints. That is precisely why the formation of territory in Tokyo is either very delicate and personal or extremely abstract in nature. Delicate expression and self-­assertion are practiced in very small spaces, and signs of the changing seasons, such as wind chimes and reed blinds in summer and ­bamboo-­and-­pine ornaments at New Year’s, set off the city. Perhaps reflecting the low-­key nature of these forms of expression, the primary territories of many individuals are faintly defined and modest. A city like Tokyo has places with identity for every possible group in society. People wander about, seeking small territories of their own, whether in ­members­only clubs and student hangouts or in bars and pubs around stations. These modest territories, however, are unstable and unconnected. The empty gaps between territories are filled by more abstract information concerning the

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city. That is one of the major characteristics of the contemporary city. Information insinuates itself in various forms through television, movies, paintings, and comics into the empty areas of the consciousness. The media try to dictate to us their view of the city. News programs on television at New Year’s are instructive. The Marunouchi business district used to be shown on such programs to symbolize Tokyo, but some years back it was replaced by a shot of the five skyscrapers in the Shinjuku subcenter. Like a picture in an advertisement for an overseas tour, that view of Shinjuku, with the snow-­covered peak of Mount Fuji in the background, has undeniably entered people’s unconscious. The fact that in Hollywood pictures the President’s room must have a certain interior and view reveals one aspect of the contemporary city. Eventually, people’s views of the city become unconsciously controlled. When at last an understanding is reached about links between hitherto unconnected points through such manipulations and through the efforts of individuals, the city begins to take on an existence much like a ­garment. The city engages the individual through events as opposed to history or tradition. Unexpected encounters, trivial incidents, friends made at gatherings—even small things can be an opportunity for a person to add something new to what at first glance may seem like a fixed set of urban experiences. When an event happens to be associated with a place or form, that new experience becomes for him another part of the city with significance. When one’s impression of that part fades, it is discarded. What pattern of territorialization is born in us from such urban information and events transmitted continuously by the media? Seeing these diverse experiences with new eyes is probably the first step in improving the city. Raban concludes Soft City: It could perhaps be otherwise; but we shall need more daring, more cool understanding than we are displaying at present. We live in cities badly; we have built them up in culpable innocence and now fret helplessly in a synthetic wilderness of our own construction. We need—more urgently than architectural utopias, ingenious traffic disposal systems, or ecological programmes—to comprehend the nature of citizenship, to make a serious imaginative assessment of that special relationship between the self and the city; its unique plasticity, its privacy and freedom.3

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My City

Everyone must have a city he can call his own, a mental, primary landscape created from the relationship between the self and the city. My city is something I have created, not something given to me by someone else. Each individual continuously acquires, selects, and assimilates territories, mental landscapes, and urban fragments made up of information, ideas, and events, and from those actions arises a new city. One can create such a place or landscape, even though it may be only a temporary habitat. Eventually, through dialogues, people will get an opportunity to discover what parts of their separate cities they do in fact share. It is then that people will discover that possession by each individual of a city of his or her own provides a more stable foundation for the city as a community.

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Ame r i c a : H i g h ways, Detached Houses, and Sk yscr ap er s

We create a history by selecting from innumerable facts and incidents those we deem are important and building a system of relationships around them. Many different histories can be created, depending on the selection and interpretation of facts and relationships. There may be one account on which most of us are in agreement, but history becomes highly relative once we go beyond what is generally agreed upon and begin to inquire into matters as individuals. Today, new interpretations are constantly emerging regarding even ancient history, where we thought we had agreed upon the facts and the overall schema for those facts long ago. It is therefore extremely difficult to gain a sure perspective on urban history in a society such as America, which has been in existence only a short time and is currently undergoing such a radical transformation. My first encounter with American cities took place many years ago. On an afternoon in September 1952, the cargo ship I had boarded two weeks earlier ended its voyage across the foggy Pacific at a pier in Seattle. Interestingly, my first impression of an American city was not visual but olfactory. For someone from Japan, where automobiles were still relatively few in number, Seattle smelled strongly of gasoline and metal. However, that novel olfactory experience was soon overtaken by surprising visual and spatial experiences. Before long I was living in American cities and gradually developing an image of American cities and architecture from the things I experienced and learned. In the six subsequent years, I lived in four cities on the East Coast and in the Midwest: a suburb of Detroit, a suburb of Boston, New York, and St. Louis. A two-­year trip through Europe, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East from 1958 to 1960 was followed by a period lasting until 1965 in which I shuttled back and forth between St. Louis, Cambridge (Massachusetts), and Japan.

Even after returning more or less permanently to Japan, I made frequent—albeit short—visits to many North American cities, including several on the West Coast. Some I visited only once, while others, such as San Francisco, I visited a few dozen times. My view of American cities inevitably underwent a transformation as my outlook on cities and architecture gradually changed. It has always been a personal view, changing as I changed, and not an objective urban history of America; its evolution has not been linear. Instead, from time to time new light has been cast on the same fact or phenomenon, so that what appeared to me at one time a revelation seemed later a forewarning. What follows is an analysis, based on thirty years of personal experience, of a number of issues of urban morphology in America that most interest me. S ta rt i n g Po i nt and Po i nt o f Or i g i n

A center can always be discovered in a city with a long history. When most of our ancestors lived in the wilderness, the town represented the cosmos, that is, a world of order, as opposed to the chaos outside. Two acts—the establishment of the center and the confirmation of a boundary—symbolize man’s intent to construct a world of order. In early societies in the ancient period, a hill or a great tree was at times selected for the center, and this eventually evolved into a cosmic pillar or tower. Later, the Greek city-­state came to have a dualistic structure centered around the acropolis, the sacred domain, and an agora in the city area (or astu), the secular domain. In the medieval city, the world of order was made manifest in a nucleus—consisting of elements such as the church, the market, and the residence of the feudal lord—combined with a wall surrounding the central part of the city. In a Japanese ­castle-­town, boundaries were not sharply defined, but the castle itself provided an emphatic visual center. From the late feudal period to the modern period, the form, function, and at times even the location of the center of a city were affected by the expansion in population and the degree of change in social and economic organization, and in the spatial guise of central authority. Nevertheless, a city that had once possessed a nucleus nearly always retained in the historical memories of its citizens a central point of origin, no matter how great its formal and functional transformation. Today, the concentration of various facilities of a highly public character—including department stores and railway

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stations—around such centers has more often than not reinforced that centrality. A contour map based on the price of land would no doubt show concentric rings emanating from the city’s erstwhile center. A close relationship is thus shown to exist between the psychological center and the center as determined by a quite material yardstick. That fact demonstrates the existence in these urban societies of more or less fixed points of origin. What, then, of American cities? Older, ­medium-­sized cities in the Northeast, such as Boston (first settled in 1630) and Philadelphia (1680), and in the South, such as Savannah (1740), had relatively small populations and grew only slowly at first. New England towns often possessed a grid of nine squares in their center; the town square was in the middle, and around it were arranged such buildings as the church and the town meeting hall. This arrangement is not unlike the way nomads once spent nights encircling their livestock for self-­protection. Obviously, the spatial organization of the center is not so ­clear-­cut in a city like Boston, which began as a seaport and whose oldest settled area, surrounded by three hills, has a complex topography. Still, while accepting such differences of configuration and growth, we discover in each of these old colonial cities a psychological point of origin similar to those we have already found in European cities. Unlike cities that developed in the first era, metropolises that grew up from the nineteenth century on did not have clear centers—or, to put it another way, they did not have clear points of origin on a semantic level, on the level of historical memory. What are called downtown or central districts in these cities today have quite similar cityscapes when seen from outside—boasting, for example, modern high-­r ise office buildings, eclectic ­nineteenth-­century public buildings, railway stations, and hotels—but these do not signify a “point of origin” to the residents of, say, New York, Detroit, St. Louis, and Los Angeles. Chicago, a ­nineteenth-­century city with a symbolic center in the Loop District, is a slightly different case. American cities have indeed undergone rapid changes in the last hundred years. Something like a center may exist in the urban structure, but it does not serve to maintain a fixed system of organization as in Europe; it more closely resembles the nucleus of a nebula from which vast amounts of energy are released, and which continually expands outward. To be sure, these metropolises too were originally important nuclei bolstering civic consciousness, just like the centers of European cities. Today, Wall Street in New York still maintains a distinctive urban function as a center of finance, and the downtown areas in the other three cities

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also continue to have various important urban functions in their respective metropolitan regions. It must be noted, however, that the term “downtown,” distinctive to the United States, is relative and used as the antithesis of “uptown,” which has been the domain of urban prosperity for the past hundred years. To understand the true nature of these central districts, we need to recognize that “uptown” and “downtown” are different in meaning from “Yamanote” and “Shitamachi” as used in Tokyo; instead, they represent the starting points for urban domains with ­still-­expanding vectors. The atmosphere of Tokyo’s Shitamachi or Paris’s Marais is to be found in America only in ethnic districts such as the Little Italies and Chinatowns that have continued to survive near the central districts, though they have become very Americanized by now. New York’s Downtown was an alien place for many “Uptown” New Yorkers of the nineteenth century, and today, these districts, which retain traces of the ebb and flow of urban development, are gradually losing that quality of humanity with which they have long been associated. A symbolic downtown can still be found in St. Louis. The city’s modestly sized ­nineteenth-­century central district is situated on the west bank of the Mississippi. Residential districts for the affluent developed nearby, especially along the boulevards, which form a main axis going through the center of town toward the west. Eventually, the city began to focus its development and energy on the suburbs. The central district and areas nearby saw an influx of low-­income families from the South and the East who provided a source of cheap labor. In urban ecological terms, it was the beginning of an invasion. The areas around the abandoned downtown became slums, and eventually the high-­r ise public housing project known as ­Pruitt-­Igoe was built in the name of urban redevelopment, receiving much national attention. When I was living in the city around 1956, this project was considered a model and a symbol for the revival of the central district in St. Louis; I happened to visit it with students as a part of a practical training program at the university, and a young black man working at the district community center told us of the hopes people had for it. Despite much effort, the project became ­crime-­r idden within fifteen years, and fearful residents departed, leaving behind nearly deserted buildings standing like ruins. Eventually, just twenty years after their construction, the high-­r ise apartment buildings were destroyed with dynamite. The area subsequently became a desolate urban wasteland. In November 1981, I had an opportunity to revisit St. Louis and went to the district in a car. The downtown area of St. Louis had gone through many changes in this ­quarter-­century

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and still retained some life.Yet there was something pitiful about it that suggested an old soldier, weary of battle but still desperately defending an isolated stronghold. The area that had been the ­Pruitt-­Igoe housing district had metamorphosed into a vast urban wilderness filled with abandoned cars and furniture.The Jefferson Memorial Arch, rising beyond it reflecting the faint light of winter, suggested to me a monument to a city whose historical mission had ended. Ro ads as Physi cal E x tension

Behind these ideas of the starting point and point of origin in American cities is yet another pair of antithetical concepts—the open urban system and the closed urban system. A city with a closed system is full of places with character and a high concentration of meaning; a city with an open system is basically a set of spaces that are uniform and have a low concentration of meaning. In the latter, space is quite neutral and abstract, and its value is determined by the effect of all actions taken with respect to that land. In a city with an open system, spaces themselves become highly subject to manipulation. The three models of urban form proposed by scholars at the University of Chicago—the concentric model, the sector model, and the polycentric model— represent the confirmation and clarification of patterns of settlement created or destroyed in accordance with principles of ecological adaptation in such neutral urban spaces by groups differentiated by ethnic background and economic class. The property owners who, in a space of only a hundred years, simply surrendered the central city areas that had been theirs for several generations to low­income families—and the administrative authorities of St. Louis who simply

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Plan of Chicago, 1901.

destroyed a high-­r ise housing project after only twenty years of use—revealed a mindset of urban planning in which everything is valued only for its effect. St. Louis is one of the more typical examples of the dynamic development of American cities as open systems, driven by roads. In Architecture and Utopia, the Italian architectural and urban critic Manfredo Tafuri writes: From as early as the mid-­eighteenth century, the great historical merit of American city planning has been the considering of the problem explicitly from the point of view of those forces which provoke morphological change in the city, and controlling them with a pragmatic attitude completely foreign to European practice. The use of a regular network of arteries as a simple, flexible support for an urban structure to be safeguarded in its continual transformation, realizes an objective never arrived at in Europe. In the American city, absolute liberty is granted to the single architectural fragment, but this fragment is situated in a context that it does not condition formally: the secondary elements of the city are given maximum articulation, while the laws governing the whole are rigidly maintained. Thus urban planning and architecture are finally separated.1

A zone of homogeneous spaces and roads as a means of dividing that zone and accessing each space—these two powerful concepts for manipulating urban form freed the city from the myths surrounding character of place that European civilization had created over several centuries. This trend was accelerated, particularly

3.2 Demolition of the ­Pruitt-­Igoe housing project in St. Louis, 1972.

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from the nineteenth century on, by the separation of the dwelling from the place of employment, along with the influx of population into cities and the growth of urban regions as economic markets. The most distinctive aspect of this system was that roads assured equal accessibility to all buildings, whether detached houses, apartment buildings, or commercial facilities. Naturally, the increasing importance of automobiles to urban life made that all the more necessary. Equal accessibility plays a decisive role in urban form, as is revealed when we examine blocks. That is, blocks are the inevitable by‑product of road construction, whether the roads are a part of a grid pattern in the middle of the city or cul-­de‑sacs in the suburbs or the main street in a small town, and whatever the size or function of buildings. Moreover, with few exceptions, roads are not subdivided into narrow back streets, as in Japan. In the American urban structure, roads assuring uniform accessibility are at the bottom of the hierarchy of roads. Above them is a network of urban arteries, parkways, and freeways. In American towns there are no back areas—or what in Japan we call oku, or inner areas—that possess character of place. Of course we glimpse beautiful gardens with plants, small swimming pools, or children’s play areas in the back of affluent homes in the suburbs, or in areas like Georgetown in Washington, D.C. There, people can talk to each other across low hedges. Such places, however, are exceptions limited both to certain areas and to certain classes. That is, areas with a high concentration of activity are created mostly in private domains invisible from the road. By contrast, if one walks around to the rear of apartment buildings standing by a road, one usually encounters a desolate scene with little sign of human activity. The clamorous back streets of Southeast Asia or the Mediterranean, or the quiet, roji spaces full of ambience of Kanazawa or Kyoto, are not to be found in America. Once stated, this seems quite obvious, but the sense of incompatibility I felt for several decades in American towns is accounted for by a structure based on a different notion of territoriality. Americans satisfy their sense of territory through constant focus on and passion for the richness of private things. That, of course, can be said to have been the natural consequence of being a society more blessed with space than any other, but it is probably more accurate to say that that focus helped to produce the surfeit of private spaces. In Japan, the automobile is often said to be a private space that offers freedom from life in a cramped apartment,

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but in America, the car is seen more as a flexible extension of the house. For an American, the house, the garage, the road, and the freeway are metaphorically a linked extension of his body. That is, the equal accessibility roads provide to each house creates an arrangement not unlike that of a ­Thousand-­Armed Kannon: each arm is a house, and the torso is the main arterial road. Thus driving in America, one often finds that—in contrast to the Japanese, who drive with such serious concentration—Americans strike up conversations at intersections with total strangers. They are like neighbors greeting each other from balconies on opposite sides of the street in Naples. Americans are like turtles carrying their shells with them. The amenity and tension produced by the contact and friction of self­centered domains form the urban territory distinctive to this country. At the same time, that is the underlying cause of the various problems of human relationships troubling American cities. Americans socialize principally in the private domains of houses. In the 1960s, the hippies built their communes far from human settlements, and these places were private worlds. Nostalgia for the extended family system of the past may lie behind volunteer activities, perhaps the most distinctive aspect of the history of American cities. The freeways of Los Angeles are the ultimate extension of the self. There are three levels to the meaning of the “free” in freeways. The freeways are toll-­free, permit freedom of movement, and liberate the self psychologically. Freeways figure in almost all automobile trips in Los Angeles. To go from point A to point B, a Los Angeles resident goes to the freeway entry nearest A and then travels to the exit nearest B. Cloverleafs are designed with a large turning radius, and the freeways, equipped with numerous wide lanes, do not have gates at entries and exits as in Japan. Except during rush hour, one can enter a freeway without decelerating. As a city planner has pointed out, there is no need to automatically move when one changes one’s place of employment in this city where residential areas are widely scattered. As long as freeways function smoothly, this city is the closest thing to a motopia. Of course the various urban problems caused by the fact that roads, parking, and freeways take up such a high percentage of the land area have already been pointed out, but that is not the subject of this essay. My concern here is the fact that freeways are a powerful symbolic extension of physicality, and what that reveals about cultural character.

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The architectural historian Reyner Banham had this observation to make in Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies: The first time I saw it happen nothing registered on my conscious mind, because it all seemed so natural—as the car in front turned down the off­ramp of the San Diego freeway, the girl beside the driver pulled down the sun-­visor and used the mirror on the back of it to tidy her hair. Only when I had seen a couple more incidents of the kind did I catch their import: that coming off the freeway is coming in from outdoors. A domestic or sociable journey in Los Angeles does not end so much at the door of one’s destination as at the off-­ramp of the freeway, the mile or two of ­g round-­level streets counts as no more than the front drive of the house.2

Though it may be an enormous belt, the freeway itself is perceived by the residents of Los Angeles as just a place. The freeway is indeed a front parlor for the home they consider their castle. In 1978 I spent two months in Los Angeles and used the freeways extensively every day. Gradually I, too, came to see the freeway as a part of my body. Several years earlier, a friend of mine, an architect now living in San Francisco who had just moved to Los Angeles, was driving at full speed toward the airport when a car coming up from the rear started honking its horn. He told me he took a look and recognized the driver as an ex‑girlfriend whom he had not seen since their ­split‑up. He waved, they exchanged shouted greetings, and at the next interchange they parted. I began to understand the dry romanticism that flourishes under the deep blue sky of California when he wondered out loud when they would meet next on the freeway. The De tached Ho use and th e Skysc rape r

If European civilization can be said to have created its own distinctive cities and works of architecture through the creation and maintenance of order and norms—and through the proposal of a new system of order whenever the existing order was threatened with destruction—then America, though it has a shorter history, must be recognized as having produced its own unique cities and buildings through the promotion of laissez-­faire urban economic policies that extol the

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frontier spirit and despite the failures that are the inevitable consequence of those policies. Practically all developing countries have metropolises with open systems, but so far they have not been able to match America’s achievement. The wealth of urban and architectural culture America has produced in the last one hundred years is remarkable, even when the slight head start it enjoys is taken into consideration. Let us examine two of the most salient American symbols of freedom: the detached house and the skyscraper. In American Architecture and Urbanism, Vincent Scully writes that even after the United States had reached a high level of material civilization, a deep-­seated American attitude—distrust of urban civilization and a tendency to equate political freedom with physical decentralization—gained strength and eventually found expression in the most vital form of ­nineteenth-­century American architecture, the ­single-­family, wood-­construction house in the suburbs.3 As I said earlier, the detached house and the road are inextricably linked, not only in a direct, physical sense, but also in a symbolic sense. The detached house directly connected to the road eventually became the ­middle-­class image of the ideal dwelling. People instinctively understood that this was the one type of architecture that had no ties to colonial culture and was truly American in meaning. It can be argued that the deep-­seated desire to return to the soil on the part of Americans—that is, the American yearning for an agrarian utopia—was expressed most directly, not in the city as a whole, which was conceived as an open system, but in the detached house. The detached house was actively introduced not only into suburbs but also into ­medium-­sized cities. The so‑called “private street systems”—residential enclaves with controlled access—were developed in the mid-­nineteenth century as restricted utopias for the affluent of the time. As Tafuri explains, revolt against the pressure of European tradition has always been behind the American drive toward freedom. A desire to transcend the static world of order—for example, the Palladian world—and to express a dynamic worldview is constantly found in the stylistic history of detached houses. In contrast to the simple and rustic houses of the colonial style, Thomas Jefferson’s home, Monticello (1780), in Charlottesville, Virginia, represents a magnificent resolution of the conflict between the desire for stability and the will to expand horizontally over the land—that is, between European and American paradigms. Eventually, this line of development produced the even more liberated forms of the Prairie Style houses by Frank Lloyd Wright; with them, detached houses became works of spatial poetry distinctive to America.

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In America, the strong conviction that “a man’s home is his castle” is an expression of yearning not only for freedom but for a self-­contained internal world. Houses that are self-­sufficient worlds are to be found in other regional cultures, especially in farmhouses, but in America, they developed in cities as early as the colonial period. When the agora was built in the center of the Greek city-­state, the citizens’ houses lost some of their independence. It was the beginning of a European urban civilization revolving both physically and psychologically around what was public. It was therefore not strange when the aristocrats’ residences assumed the style of small temples. The fact that, by contrast, churches and meeting halls took the form of oversized “houses” in the early colonial period in America is noteworthy. Conditions favorable for the acceptance of modern detached houses in the International Style developed, such as the desire (referred to above) to expand space horizontally, free planning, a perception of houses as containers for a comfortable life. At least from looking at contemporary detached houses in the urban context, it seems that in America, as in Europe, detached houses of an original nature are ultimately unable to survive as types. Detached houses such as Wright’s Fallingwater, Philip Johnson’s Glass House, and Bruce Goff ’s Bavinger House must be regarded as valuable reference points in the history of the development from modern to contemporary architecture—that is, as ­small-­scale experiments of new ideas subsequently developed on a grander scale. This suggests that while Americans valued freedom, which permitted and was a precondition of creativity and originality, they wanted to be free, too, of things that were truly creative or original. The individuality characteristic of detached houses as a type had to mesh with the idea of freedom that has been the basis for transcendentalist thought since Emerson. Direct connections to roads, a stable relationship to

3.3 Vertical expression in the Bavinger House, Norman, Oklahoma, 1955, by Bruce Goff.

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the earth, forms acceptable to the historical memory of Americans in the depths of their consciousness, a certain level of comfort as actual machines to live in, flexibility, scope to permit self-­expression or the possibility of expression—these conditions guaranteed the success of detached houses as a type of architectural vernacular. Vernacular forms do not easily accommodate change, including what is new. The detached houses in the suburbs and the cities of America were able to create an urban context because they possessed the essentially conservative character of the vernacular. How, then, should we interpret the other American symbol of freedom, the skyscraper? My first encounter with skyscrapers took place in December 1952 and left an indelible impression. I was studying at the time at the Cranbrook Academy of Art in a suburb of Detroit, and when my first Christmas vacation in America came around, I flew to New York. I arrived at what is now called Kennedy Airport late in the evening and took an airport limousine into the city. I will never forget my first sight of skyscrapers shining against the night sky as the bus reached a point near the ­Queens-­Midtown Tunnel, across the river from Manhattan. Since then, the skyscraper has been an integral part of my image of American architecture. Two conditions made it possible for skyscrapers to achieve their status in the American urban context. The first, of course, was progress in technology related to the development of ­steel-­frame structures, elevators, and air-­conditioning systems. The second was economic circumstances. From the middle of the nineteenth century to the beginning of the twentieth, American cities such as New York and Chicago underwent rapid development, and the price of land in their central districts rose sharply. Skyscrapers, however, made it possible to stack an

3.4 Horizontal expression in the Ward-­Willetts House, Oak Park, Illinois, 1902, by Frank Lloyd Wright.

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almost unlimited number of floors for undefined use on a narrow piece of land. Americans readily accepted the skyscraper, which promised unrestricted urban growth in the vertical direction as opposed to the horizontal, as a new building type. Moreover, like boulevards constructed by rulers in the Baroque period, skyscrapers were undoubtedly a way of demonstrating power and authority in the name of progress for American industrialists and financiers. However, the skyscraper achieved its unique status in the cultural context of American cities because it was more than just a symbol of progress or a “machine” for producing more floor area. Earlier public and commercial buildings in the center of the city were mostly designed by architects with a Beaux-­Arts education and so were inevitably modeled on European architecture (though the beginnings of a uniquely American style could already be found in mid-­nineteenth-­century Chicago). Skyscrapers, however, were entirely different from massive masonry buildings designed to fit into a spatial framework of figure and ground; they were instead independent of whatever stood around them. Skyscrapers, in that sense, had the potential to be free. Magda ­Révész-­Alexander states that the world can be divided into cultures with towers and cultures without towers.4 It is important to note that America, which had hitherto been one of the latter, became one of the former with the development of skyscrapers. The tripartite composition of early skyscrapers into base, body, and crown reveals architect’s (and society’s) deep interest in this form of tower. The skyscraper became a metaphor for the column. Around the turn of the twentieth century, eclecticism was in vogue in the architectural world, and early skyscrapers sported diverse forms of stylistic ornamentation, especially on top. It has been said that the skyline in New York, with its hint of every style from Gothic to modern eclectic, was an instantaneous recapitulation of history. The skyscraper acquired monumentality and achieved its historic status in the American urban context because it was able to assimilate diverse styles and to generate new architectural meaning. The skyscraper, like the detached house, represented the emergence in American culture of a new building type that suggested physical independence. However, unlike the detached house, the skyscraper under the influence of modernism (and later postmodernism) continued to assume different guises symbolic of the age, with new garb emerging still today. The contradictions inherent in architecture—conflicts between form

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and function and between art and technology—continue to find expression in the skyscraper. The desire for freedom in American culture continues to be expressed in various forms, including billboards along highways. Saul Steinberg has expressed this freedom most eloquently with his pen. Steinberg’s landscapes reveal his awareness of the way the distinctively American projection of physicality continues to affect the environment.

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Th e D r awi n g C a l led Bra sília

Two hours after its departure from Rio de Janeiro, the plane began to descend. I stared out the window, but nothing was visible in the darkness. Like a pearl necklace flung into space, a cluster of lights suddenly emerged from between the faint shadows of clouds. We had already arrived over Brasília, the capital. A ­quarter-­century had passed since then-­president Juscelino Kubitschek decided at the start of the 1950s to move the capital here. Brasília was to be constructed in the center of the country to correct a pattern of development weighted toward the southern seaboard and to stimulate the development of the Amazon basin. As a daytime flight to Brasília quickly reveals, the soil in this highland region is red. The earth is crisscrossed by wide roads, and here and there verdant lawns have been created. Plants generally do poorly in the soil, and only scattered acacia and eucalyptus trees grow in between buildings. The four straight roads arranged nearly parallel in the east-west direction in the center of the city form an axis, and administrative, financial, and commercial facilities are located in this district. At the eastern end of the axis is Three Powers Plaza (Praça dos Três Poderes), which often appears on television programs and in photographs introducing the city. Like the wings of a bird, two systems of roads branch off from around the middle of this east-­west axis. Housing—composed mostly of ­medium- and high­r ise apartment buildings—and community facilities are situated along this ­north­south network. What resembled a pearl necklace from the plane was the chain of light created by streetlights along these roads. To the east, the plateau slopes down gradually, and an artificial lake nestles, as it were, under the two wings.

From a distance—for example, from a slight rise on the opposite shore of the lake—one can get a panoramic view of Brasília. The white skyline of the city, bathed in the evening sunlight and viewed against a background of the deep blue sky of the highlands and the dynamic movement of white cumulonimbus clouds, is impressive. Only an expanse of unpopulated space exists between the observer and the city. The city still appears the way that a small village in the countryside viewed from a distance does. Yet Brasília is not a village of a few dozen houses but the capital of a large country. By the start of the 1970s the population was approaching 300,000. Nevertheless, the space suggests a ruin—or perhaps, rather, one of the plazas Giorgio de Chirico depicted in his paintings, in which time has stopped still. It is a world that exists only in the mind, a world without a hint of human presence, noise, or movement of air above ground, yet full of unlimited light. Brasília has something in common with the Esposizione Universale di Roma (EUR), a suburban district outside Rome, where the façades of fascist buildings had had a strangely bright and empty quality when I visited it ten years earlier. Brasília is not the only new capital constructed in this century. There have been many, including Canberra in Australia, Islamabad in Pakistan, and Chandigarh in the Punjab state in India. However, Brasília is especially abstract in character. Where does this abstract quality originate? To me, one of the most fascinating aspects of this story is the fact that modern architectural ideas and city planning doctrines (or at least, some of those doctrines) that had developed primarily in Europe from the late nineteenth century to the start of the twentieth century were crystallized in Brasília without alteration and without any misgivings. Perhaps “frozen” might be the more apt expression. As is often pointed out, practically no trace of an old indigenous civilization exists in Brazil, compared to other countries of Central and South America; and the tolerance characteristic of the Portuguese when compared to the Spanish, seen in their Brazilian descendants, can be said to have facilitated this bold experiment in new architecture. Certainly, securing greenery and sunlight and reorganizing urban spaces in order to improve the material and social environment of cities, which had continued to expand and been laid to ruin by the Industrial Revolution since the eighteenth century, were high among the priorities of modern city planning and architecture. Those, however, were merely general urban planning principles, and

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adaptation to the particular environmental, climatic, and historical circumstances of each case was of course needed in their actual application—in fact, that was the main task for contemporary planning in regional societies. Nevertheless, the concept of a healthy city was realized in Brasília in an extremely abstract manner. At the same time, a Baroque overemphasis on visual perception and an obsession with formalistic principles can be seen in many aspects of the city’s functional organization. For example, the hotel I stayed at was located on the south side of the east-­west urban axis, and a hotel of the same form and size was being constructed on the north side in the exact symmetrical location. The two hotels were not close enough to produce any synergies, but they were not so far apart as to be centrally located in their respective districts. The presence of the two hotels separated by a distance of several hundred meters was strange. Traffic was also completely separated by level. No traffic signals existed, even for pedestrians, and I frequently came to intersections where I had to wait for a break in traffic in both directions and run across at risk to my life. Many conveniences, including housing, were considered for civil servants—since this was to be a city of government—but a serene indifference was shown in planning housing for people in low-­ranking service industries necessary to the maintenance of urban life or for construction workers. Brasília is perhaps one of the best examples of the brutal exercise of the power of city planning. As someone of the same profession as Lucio Costa and Oscar Niemeyer, who planned and designed this city, I cannot help but consider the strange, almost magical power of the plan as a drawing. Building or remaking a city is fundamentally an act of brute force. Mankind’s long history has shown that city planning is often an expression of a concern

3.5 Lucio Costa’s original sketch for the new capital plan, 1957.

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for design on the part of those in authority. It is not strange that man has had a persistent desire to give form to the city, since concern for design has been a psychological force throughout history. City planning offered those in authority the ideal opportunity for self-­assertion. The many beautiful old cities of Europe that today offer such endless delights to the traveler could not have been built without the enormous wealth brought back from the colonies. The reconstruction plan of Paris by Haussmann during the Third Empire in France produced the beautiful boulevards we see today, but at the cost of destroying the semantic structures of many small districts. According to his memoir Inside the Third Reich, Albert Speer, an architect who, as a confidant of Hitler, became minister of munitions toward the end of World War II, was obsessed with a plan to reconstruct Berlin until Hitler’s last days.1 All this is consistent with the way cities have been constructed throughout history. By the brutality implicit in the act of designing a city, however, I do not mean merely acts of brute force perpetrated by those in authority. I am referring instead to the power embodied in a single line or in a single drawing. Why does a single line or a single drawing come to have such significance in the act of creating a new city? Because all city planning acts begin with and boil down to a single line, and because nothing can be initiated without that single line, whether the community is a city of one million with complex functions or a simple village of several dozen houses. Many people no doubt believe that building a city requires the repetition and accumulation of an enormous number of surveys, analyses, studies, discussions, and decisions. The effort an individual must exert to create even a house on a tiny lot may lead people to believe that creating a city must be an extraordinary task.

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Brasília in 1972.

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Certainly, computers may help to analyze and supply various data. The reality, however, is that nothing can be started without a drawing. Ultimately someone must, with brutal finality, draw that single line on a white piece of paper and produce that drawing. In the early 1960s, a new industrial city was planned in the Guiana Highlands of Venezuela, a country that shares a border with Brazil. In response to a request from the Venezuelan government, top experts from the Joint Center for Urban Studies at Harvard and MIT, with support from the Ford Foundation, developed a plan over the course of several years. Many personnel were sent to the site, and an enormous amount of research was conducted on everything from geography, soil conditions, culture, economy, and transportation to human ecology. Naturally a design team was included, and it undertook from the start a parallel study of the form the regional city would take. I was affiliated with Harvard at the time and was able to observe this process closely. What surprised me was that a single bending arterial road appeared at an early stage in the process; as time passed, various functions were attached to it. Several years passed, but that line stayed the same. No doubt the actual formation of the town is today proceeding around that single artery. Lucio Costa’s proposal for Brasília is said to have been the winning scheme in a limited competition. However, I can picture Costa lingering on that vast plateau of red soil over which only a few thickets of trees and shrubs are scattered. I can also imagine him back in his room silently confronting a blank sheet of paper in the lamplight. The first line he drew on that sheet no doubt indicated the east-­west axis. Nothing else is conceivable. An architect and planner, given this land with little character except the slight downward slope to the east, could not possibly imagine anything other than a self-­sufficient form. It had to be the equivalent of a pyramid in the middle of the desert in ancient Egypt. With the addition of the wings extended to the left and the right, and the lake, the image was complete. Intuition is key to pattern recognition in an urban designer as well as a mathematician or a go master.2 His logic and scope of judgment provide a quick check to see whether something is likely to succeed or not. People may call that irrational and imprudent. However, creating something from scratch more often than not requires some peremptory act of judgment at first—or, more precisely, at the first critical juncture. All rationales, from the assignment of functions to the system of transportation, are developed on the basis of what has been drawn. Certainly

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there are often cases where a scheme is discarded and everything starts over again from square one. Whatever the final form, however, nothing can begin without that first drawing. That single line or drawing eventually begins to control and influence the movement and the way of life of tens of thousands of people. It is perhaps the most romantic act of brute force possible. A single painting by Picasso called Guernica had a powerful emotional effect on many people of the time. The drawing produced by an urban designer exercises power over countless people in an entirely different way. Albert Speer’s book Spandau examines the subtle psychological forces at work in an architect to whom authority has been conferred.3 When in due course it became time to shift from the near-­visionary world of the urban designer to the actual realization of that world, he began to crave more authority for that design. At times he gave in to temptation. He warns that a drawing that has been authorized eventually takes on a life of its own and can no longer be controlled by the person who originally produced it. Fear that a drawing would take on an independent life warred with his design ambition. At the western end of the east-­west axis drawn by Costa is a television tower, and at the top is an observation deck. From there, I could see below the pattern he had drawn translated into reality. The countless automobiles moving like insects in all directions faithfully repeated the pattern he had created. The Three Powers Plaza at the eastern end of the city is composed of two adjacent towers, the white lid-­like Assembly Building at their feet, and the Presidential Palace and the Congress Hall situated at both ends. There are rectangular boxes of diverse heights and proportions. I began to wonder where in this huge collage people actually lived. The people—and I did begin to see people moving about—were like grains of rice. If I had had a movie camera with a zoom lens, I would undoubtedly have been able to record many different lifestyles: the relaxed people sunbathing by the poolside in the hotel where I had just had lunch, the group of youths in a drug store complaining about the tedium against the background of Latin rock music from a jukebox, the housewife washing the window of an apartment, and children running around in the pilotis. Once one descends into its nether world, Brasília shows unexpected signs of life here and there. The people in Brasília lead their lives in the hope of forming small territories of their own where they can express themselves, just as the people in Rio de Janeiro do.

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I believe that, like an organism that slowly but surely breaks out of its given shell and evolves or suffers extinction, a town, though it may start from a single drawing, eventually begins to produce its own drawings—that is, to create its own destiny. How much time must pass before a single drawing produced by several individuals begins to contain these countless individual designs and to undergo ­transmutation? Like moss covering a stone, various transformations begin to appear in the system and principle forcibly imposed by a single drawing. A planner I knew once commented that even if a single drawing does violence, it is desirable if it is open and permits a dialogue with individual inhabitants. I am not ready to accept that, because the one who is producing the drawing is not then anticipating such possibilities or able to anticipate them. I have stated that there is a strange magical power in a single line; that is because the instant a single line is drawn, it takes on a certain inevitability. Each city has its own historical destiny, which is different from the evolution of organisms. People somehow cling to and survive in this thoroughly transparent city that is abstract to the point of indifference. Costa’s drawing has so far remained unchanged. The southern wing has already been completed, and the northern wing is steadily being built. For the foreseeable future, people will continue to accept this heritage of the modern era; they will continue to scurry across streets, live in the same concrete apartment buildings, and shop daily in the same markets. Little by little, they will adapt to the drawing while beginning to produce drawings of their own—in fact, the number of people who have gradually come to like this city is said to be increasing. The residents have not yet had any significant impact on the urban form of Brasília, yet no doubt something will eventually emerge like a message in invisible ink written on Costa’s drawing.4

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Brasília housing estate in 1998.

N o t e s o n U r b a n Spa ce

Ho me l and and Outl and

These days I often employ a pair of antithetical ideas in attempting to describe the nature of cities, especially large cities. I am unable as yet to explain precisely why the terms homeland and outland (or kokyo and ikyo in Japanese) are useful in expressing the character of cities, but I find them rich in suggestions. Why are people drawn to cities? They concentrate in metropolises despite various negative factors. One possible attraction is freedom. However, the merits of an urban environment are by no means obvious, at least with respect to freedom of expression. Many different “group languages” exist in the metropolis. According to the critic Takao Aeba, the political philosopher Simone Weil made a sharp distinction between the “group” and the “individual.”1 It takes only a gathering of four or five people for the “language of the individual” to gradually disappear and for the “group language” to become dominant. A system comes into being, and the true “individual” is suppressed. In fact, the city is full of constraints and customs, yet it is precisely in this environment that people hope to find freedom.The city creates this seemingly paradoxical psychological condition. Perhaps that is what attracts people there. Let us consider the question from another angle. In Shiso to shite no Tokyo (Tokyo as an Ideology), Koichi Isoda writes: A visitor from without is always perceived as “foreign matter” in a stable cultural sphere. If the community is tightly knit, then the “foreign matter” is either expelled or assimilated. An agrarian community confronted by an alien value system tends to either reject it or be assimilated by it if its values are superior. In Tokyo, however, neither rejection nor assimilation took place.2

Isoda attributes this to iki, the spirit of the natives of Edo, but I ascribe it to the fact that Tokyo has always been for people both a homeland and an outland. “Foreign matter” is accepted because Tokyo has always been a city of people who come from other areas. Indeed, acceptance is a confirmation of a Tokyoite’s own identity as someone whose homeland is a haven for outlanders. That is, the spirit distinctive to large cities is based on the coexistence of a homeland and an outland—or, more precisely, “homelandishness” and “outlandishness.” Kyoto, a more ancient and conservative city, is not outlandish to anywhere near the degree that Tokyo is. That is because outlandishness is a destabilizing quality. Homelandishness and outlandishness are not recently developed qualities, but have long been the salient characteristics of large cities. I also find these terms useful because they clearly indicate an individual’s viewpoint. Whether a place is a homeland or an outland depends entirely on the individual in question. A homeland for A might be an outland for B, and vice versa. That is, different human beings can have entirely different views, perceptions, and understandings of the same phenomenon. These terms thus recognize that the city exists as the sum total of the actions people take daily to create their own individual realities out of a hypothetical (or virtual) reality. What does an outland signify? The word often means a strange, as yet unexplored frontier. One might feel a vague longing for the outland as well as anxiety about one’s existence there. Anxiety can go hand in hand with hope for the future. Takao Aeba, to whom I referred above, repeats the words of Franz Kafka, “anxiety is at the core of my being,” in describing how in the case of the Jews, a people denied a homeland for nearly 2,000 years of European history, for whom racial isolation provided an impetus to discover “universal knowledge.” To be precise, an outland is not the same thing as what Isoda calls “foreign matter” or something from without. Foreign matter can certainly evoke feelings about the outland, but it is not the outland itself. The homeland is a foundation providing spiritual stability but, by the same token, a deterrent to contact with anything or anyone beyond its boundaries. Every individual has inside himself both a homeland and an outland, and the city continually mirrors the internal world he constructs. Homeland and outland are mental landscapes, within which foreign matter exists as objects. Thus these antithetical concepts are particularly suggestive for architecture and urban spaces. The homeland is a landscape already inscribed with time. Its spatial extent,

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being clearly limited, is easily described. The outland, however, is a landscape in which time and space are both obscure. That is because the outland is a world of the imagination. In the homeland, imagination is directed inwardly and does not manifest itself in any outward way that threatens the existence of the homeland itself.3 The homeland is a spatial image carrying the full weight of time. It possesses a clear visual pattern and a recognized structure of meaning. The outland is liberated from time, visually amorphous and in a state of suspended meaning. In the homeland, space is controlled by the powerful will of the group, but in the outland, the individual’s imagination is permitted to wander. Toshi no fukeigaku (The Study of Urban Landscape) contains a dialogue between the critics Saburo Kawamoto and Keizo Hino.4 Discussions of the cityscape are ordinarily premised on the idea that closely knit communities bound together by celebrations and observances represent the ideal urban form, but Kawamoto and Hino sense contemporaneity in cityscapes that are desolate but at the same time invigorating. They perceive contemporaneity in a world of bright nothingness covered in concrete, glass, and metal, and point out that such a landscape, hitherto considered an outland, is now beginning to be considered a homeland by many. An urban surface composed of plants, trees, bricks, and stone that indicate the passing of time has gradually been replaced by an entirely different, inorganic surface that does not show age and generates a different set of meanings. People are at first disoriented by it but eventually forced to accept it. This in itself is merely a shift to a harder surface made of more durable materials. A more fundamental change is in fact taking place. The virtual reality created by images and computer graphics is gradually transforming the hard-­edged, tactile world into a world of a different dimension. In particular, interest has been focused recently on the way a perceptually ephemeral world can be created through inorganic materials, organic but fragile materials such as paper and fabric, and transient surfaces such as neon signs and projected images. Ephemerality has long been a theme in the dialogue between nature and the man-­made world as expressed in poetry, literature, and painting. In Japanese culture in particular, that perception has overlapped with religious views and the indigenous attitude toward nature to produce a unique and fully developed sensibility. We have in a sense come full circle. Homeland and outland have represented throughout time two diametrically opposed goals in the construction of our inner

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world. The pendulum continues to swing from one to the other—from the need for certainty to the desire for escape, from the claims of memory to the demands of the imagination. C i t y a n d Pub l i c Char acte r

In his last work, A History of Architecture: Settings and Rituals, the American architectural historian Spiro Kostof argued that Stonehenge, the neolithic monument located in southern England, was mankind’s first work of public architecture.5 Megalithic pillars were erected in a circle, and a prehistoric people enacted within it a ceremony consecrated to the sunrise. Stonehenge, made possible by pooling labor, was a demonstration of community and a place of ceremony. Thus it was also a monument. Standing in the space at Stonehenge, prehistoric man must have felt himself to be, however briefly, a larger human being than at ordinary times, and must have felt pride in belonging to a community. That is what led Kostof to call Stonehenge a work of public architecture. What interests me here is the fact that, if Kostof ’s conjecture is correct, Stonehenge already fulfilled the function subsequently served by religious architecture. Moreover, the sense that one is a larger human being, if only for a time, is a sign of spiritual exaltation which cannot be evoked merely by the sight of a monument. It is an experience that can be gained only by entering a space. Stonehenge may not have had a roof, but the pillars arranged in a circle and the lintels linking those pillars created a boundary between inside and outside, and a kind of interior space. Historically, a space that is large or high or created with a special technology or in a special place uplifts the spirit and forges communal bonds. In recent decades, new religious organizations in Japan have all constructed huge temples for just those reasons. Music and space, during the interval in which they are experienced, provide man with the most primary spiritual joy, and for that reason both have been an indispensable part of the setting for any religious ceremony since ancient times. First, architecture, through its construction on a selected site, has the power to generate what might be called character of place. Second, through the space it encompasses, architecture can give rise at times to a special spiritual condition. The acquisition of those two functions gave birth to architecture on the most existential level.

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At Stonehenge, therefore, mankind can be said to have discovered ­architecture. Space has a value that can never be totally consumed, because it is existential in character. When the Soviet Union disintegrated, statues of Lenin were immediately toppled from their pedestals and discarded. However, it is not difficult to imagine Red Square in Moscow enduring in some form, whatever political direction Russia may take in the future. The fact that it is still impossible to totally consume space takes on added significance in today’s postindustrial society, where even architecture has become an object of consumption. In calling Stonehenge a work of public architecture, Kostof no doubt felt that a certain quality of space justified such a characterization, but historically, the word “public” has been defined in quite diverse ways. It is not my intention here, however, to examine the word’s etymological roots. Instead, the issue in which I am interested is public character in the urban society we live in today. I believe that ultimately, spatial character ought to determine what is public and what is not. In European society, the public domain has always been recognized as the antithesis of the private domain. In the ancient Greek city, citizens lived in quite simple shelters, and they were encouraged to spend the day in public spaces, particularly the agora. In early modern times, the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie enjoyed public privileges, and with the arrival of the mass society, urban spaces became open to all. However, this dichotomy in urban organization between public and private remained a basic principle of urban form. Nolli’s well-­known drawing of Rome clearly expressed that idea. Architecture, too, was divided into public architecture and private architecture. Private buildings consisted mostly of vernacular housing, and only public buildings had a strong symbolic quality.

3.8 Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England.

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On the other hand, cities in Asia, including those in Japan, were from the start much less dependent on a system of organization based on such a dichotomy. In urban housing in Thailand, for example, there was little privacy among families, but the community maintained privacy for the group as a whole. This tendency was strong in the row houses of the Edo period as well. As I have pointed out in my 1973 essay “Hiroba to niwa” (Plaza and Garden), there was always a private aspect to the Japanese concept of what was public.6 The French geographer Augustin Berque, in his book Nihon no fukei, Seio no keikan ( Japanese Landscape, Western Scenery), has written that it is precisely this Western concept of cities based on centrality and the dichotomy of public and private that is being questioned today in contemporary cities—including those in Europe.7 One reason that this classical system of cities has been undermined is that public and private spaces are no longer clearly defined. In the past, private spaces were spaces into which only the family and very close friends were permitted and which functionally complemented public spaces outside. It was in spaces other than private spaces that spiritual exaltation, a sense of belonging, and a feeling of liberation were sought. However, with the development of new means of communication such as television, fax, and telephones able to accommodate group conversations, public media are invading private spaces. The global village anticipated by Marshall McLuhan first developed in the world of consciousness surrounding the individual human being and is not developing simply in the public domain. Some years ago, a symposium on architecture and the city was held in Kyoto by Japanese and Italian architects. What struck me was the fact that architects of the younger generation questioned the traditional concept of the “family.” When the

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nuclear family disintegrates, or when the roles played by the members of the family change, the house as a space may be preserved but its meaning is altered entirely. Reversing the relative positions of the living room and the individual bedrooms, so that the living room, hitherto in the “front” of the house, is located in the rear as a special gathering place, was proposed by some conference attendees. Public places we always thought were for groups have turned out to be in fact places for individuals or places for what might be called virtual family functions (such as Christmas parties and cooking lessons). Such developments, together with the advances in communication media mentioned above, suggest that a reversal in the roles of public and private spaces is indeed taking place. Although public and private domains still continue to exist, the emergence of other domains should be noted. Recently a young woman told me: “I like to go to art museums because I feel I truly have a place of my own when I am quietly surrounded by paintings.” For her, public places are private places in the most fundamental sense. Needless to say, she is not one of those visitors who crowd around popular works such as the Mona Lisa. What is important is that people are discovering in cities such places with dual meanings, and cities are increasingly being required to provide such spaces. The Spiral Building, which I designed some years ago for a site on Aoyama Boulevard in Tokyo, has become a fashionable place for holding events and meetings or simply relaxing, especially among younger people. The ­first-­floor café, which is surrounded by an exhibition and performance space, is an extension of the public space of the sidewalk. What interests me most is the scene, not in the café, but on the stairway—which I call the “esplanade”—in the front of the building that leads from the first floor to the ­third-­floor theater. A few armchairs are arranged by the window, facing the street. Youths invariably occupy these chairs—some idly

3.9 Spiral Building, Tokyo, 1985 (Maki).

3.10 Esplanade stair of the Spiral Building, facing Aoyama Boulevard.

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gazing at the hustle and bustle on the street, others quietly reading a book. They never seem to exchange words. The sight reminds me of one of Georges Seurat’s best-­known works, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, depicting a landscape in which bourgeois families are ostensibly enjoying a holiday. In fact, the people in the painting are looking in different directions and seem lost in their own thoughts. Seurat had already discovered in the splendid public spaces of ­nineteenth-­century Paris the solitude of modern urbanites. Here, too, we recognize the emergence of a different schema for public and private domains. I stated at the outset that a public place was a place in which people sought spiritual exaltation. Certainly the piazza of St. Peter’s in Rome by Bernini and the Place de la Concorde in Paris by Ange-­Jacques Gabriel were intended to suggest the infinite extension of space. The irony today, however, is that people are discovering in such spaces not just their group identities but extreme solitude as individuals as well. Simultaneously, people today are able to maintain communication with the rest of the world in the privacy of their own rooms. Thus, countless public spaces are in fact emerging. The dynamic spatial order anticipated by Berque in Nihon no fukei is gradually coming into being as a result of the loss or weakening of centrality and the development of an aesthetic of juxtaposition. Our task today is to recognize this urban condition and to create, through new programs, urban spaces that are public in a contemporary sense. Various building types have evolved and disappeared, depending on the demands of the times. However, we need to always consider the nature of space on which those developments are based.

3.11 Georges Seurat, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, 1884–­86. Oil on canvas, 81 3 121 in. Helen Birch Bartlett Memorial Collection, 1926.224, Art Institute of Chicago.

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Ho mo g e ne o us Space

Those in power have tried to control space since ancient times. Although they were ultimately unable to bend time to their will, they have had some success with space. We may be putting too much emphasis on the aesthetic and functional character of urban spaces, and not enough on the circumstances that gave those spaces birth. Since the construction of spaces has been possible only through the exercise of some form of authority—including, naturally, the authority of democratic systems—the entire history of the creation, destruction, and transformation of spaces can be viewed as a narrative revolving around authority. The spatial principles behind the contemporary city and architecture are, without a doubt, closely related to the establishment of modern industrial society in Europe. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, man’s concept of space underwent a decisive change. First, space was stripped of the character of place and the significance with which it had hitherto been endowed. Old buildings and places that did not conflict with or contradict those in authority at the time were preserved, while those deemed unsuitable were given new meaning. However, a different approach was taken in creating new spaces. Until the early modern era, the type, location, and symbolism of buildings in cities were carefully regulated and selected. Those in authority controlled space as a whole by those means. Naturally, freedom was permitted within a certain framework, and the consequent variety could visually enrich the city. It is thus possible to find a link between the concepts of style and typology and authority.

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The Industrial Revolution, however, came to exert an entirely different external force on that urban order. The massive influx of blue-­collar workers into cities led to the destruction of the hereditary system by which ownership of land and the professions were regulated. Like laborers, the bourgeoisie were new members of an urban population not bound to the land. As a result, land became property subject to sale and manipulation. The organization of space had to take into account the interest, welfare, and safety of the public; it thus became more complex and required diverse manipulations. The transformation of land into what in legal parlance is called immovables and the increased manipulation of space required the homogenization of space and the separation of space from any meaning that had hitherto been attached to it. Michel Foucault made extremely interesting points on the spatialization of power.8 According to him, in cities before the advent of the industrial society, authority was translated into visible form in space. The arrangement of important facilities at the most visible locations as determined by the laws of perspective was based on the ancient principle of control exercised by means of lines of vision. The integration of streetscapes and skylines, now considered desirable from the viewpoint of urban aesthetics, can also be viewed as a manifestation of the power or knowledge of the enforcing authority, and a demonstration of submission by residents to the ruler. Just as the spatial relationship between the observer and the observed in the Panopticon (the ideal prison proposed in the eighteenth century by Jeremy Bentham) eventually established a constant psychological relationship of domination, the exercise of authority through certain spatial principles established well-­devised systems of submission and observation. In that sense ­eighteenth-­century

3.12 Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon design, 1791.

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Japan’s kenban system for citizen registration and the street gates installed in commoners’ districts of Edo represented a highly visible structure of control. A new system called city planning was instituted to control the space in which large numbers of citizens, unattached to the land, highly mobile, and unknown to each other, were to live. According to Foucault, undesirable elements (which always included the weak) and elements that posed danger were segregated in the name of sanitation and safety. New building types such as quarantine stations and hospitals were symbolic facilities and spaces created by an invisible power, and the system of observation and submission embodied in those spaces was gradually expanded to include the layouts of school classrooms and factories. First, however, space had to be made homogeneous. That is because homogenization facilitates manipulation.9 The most important space to which modern architecture gave birth was homogeneous space—that is, space with no a priori meanings. Homogeneous space was created by modern architecture with new technology—not for architecture’s sake but, rather, in response to the demands of social authority. A new age had dawned, one in which urban spaces and structures having no a priori meaning could at times become the generators of meanings unanticipated by their producers and creators. Roland Barthes cited the Eiffel Tower as a symbolic example: and just as this great ascensional dream, released from its utilitarian prop, is finally what remains in the countless Babels represented by the painters, as if the function of art were to reveal the profound uselessness of objects, just so the Tower, almost immediately disengaged from the scientific considerations which had authorized its birth (it matters very little here that the Tower should be in fact useful), has arisen from a great human dream in which movable and infinite meanings are mingled: it has reconquered the basic uselessness which makes it live in men’s imagination.10

If there is irony in the contemporary city, it is in the fact that homogeneous space, which was invented to be a basic tool in the formation of a new order, facilitated the creation of diverse building types and urban spaces because of its manipulability, but also developed into a mechanism communicating new meaning and having unintended effects. Manhattan, which is composed of skyscrapers conceived as layers of homogeneous spaces situated on a uniform grid of streets, will continue to generate diverse meanings as long as it is invested with a high concentration of desire and capital. 128

If such urban spaces and the homogeneous spaces on which they are based are our urban reality, how should we judge and deal with them? There is no end to examples of the failure and inhumanity of urban spaces created by modernism. However, the homogeneous spaces achieved in the modern era have a history of only a hundred years. Their manipulability makes them a ­double-­edged sword. The results can be quite different, depending on who uses them. Within the larger context of history, the exploration of the city by modernism can be said to be a journey we have only begun. We cannot predict the future on the basis simply of the failures and successes of the recent past. Rather, at the outset of our journey we need to shed light on the essential nature of homogeneous space by examining the ways in which it can be manipulated. Our world is not ideal to begin with; it is neither favorably nor unfavorably disposed toward any individual. Instead, it is up to each person to determine the nature of his relationship to the world. What is true of the world is also true of the city. It is entirely up to each one of us to determine how homogeneous space is to be manipulated. In contemporary society, everyone is empowered to a certain level and must bear responsibility for the results. The three themes I have examined here have interested me for several years, and I have based the foregoing discussion on notes I have been keeping. Thus what I have written is not unlike a series of sketches made of architectural ideas. Many things are left unarticulated, and the text is far from finished. However, a sketch, though incomplete, always contains the germ of an idea. I hope to gradually nurture these ideas. I am intuitively certain that these three themes will be crucial to future consideration of urban spaces on my part. Furthermore, the themes are closely related. For example, any discussion of the theme of homogeneous space raises the issue of center and periphery. The issue of center and periphery revolves around, among other things, the question of public character and how that is judged by individual citizens. That is where I hope notions of mental landscape and the individual viewpoint I have mentioned in the introductory section, “Homeland and Outland,” may be helpful. Homogeneous space is capable of possessing diverse, highly concentrated meanings precisely because it is homogeneous. Imagination makes the most of that potential, and imagination of that kind is also what gives us courage as we contemplate the future.

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S pac e , T e r r i t o ry, a nd Perception Wr it t e n i n c o l l a b orat ion wit h M ark M u l l igan

The dominant trend of ­twentieth-­century architecture and urbanism could be described as the evolution of space—as opposed to form or symbol—as the primary means of political, psychological, and aesthetic expression in the built environment. It is only when viewed through the lens of spatial evolution that the continuous thread of this history becomes visible, transcending the last thirty years of debates on style and the concurrent vilification of technology as a dehumanizing force in our cities. An objective analysis of history shows that technology has always been subservient to societal forces, and that the new kinds of spatial relationships that modern technology has produced in the built environment were created for reasons other than that they had merely become technically possible. I believe that focusing on space and the role of technology in enabling new spatial relationships—again avoiding questions of style—will put us in an excellent position to understand where architecture and urbanism are heading in the coming years. In the twentieth century, there were two major revolutions in our physical space: one at the level of urban space, the other at the level of architectural space. In both cases we could say that the revolution was closely related to the emergence of universally homogeneous, limitless space as a metaphysical concept. For better or for worse, this new metaphysical view has caused the gradual disappearance of topos (or a priori meaning assigned to a place) in our cities and the dissolution of the room in architecture. Amid the decline of traditional spatial boundaries, however, it is possible to see that society is both constructing new, more subtle expressions of territory, and becoming more sensitive to nuance and to differences in what we suppose to be universal space.

Considering first the issue of topos in our urban surroundings, we can witness just how far the modern metropolis has evolved away from the historical model of a city. One of the most striking aspects of historical cities is a strong congruency between the appearance of built form and the identity of place. The various forms of the city center—its streets, open spaces, building fabric, and landmarks—represent an integrated expression of functional order, social values, and hierarchies that evolved over many generations. The slow pace of change in the historical city produced a tangible image of stability and specificity of place. The social and demographic upheavals of the Industrial Revolution in Europe changed all of this dramatically, beginning with the appearance of new social classes in the citizenry—an expanding bourgeoisie and a proletariat class, which might be seen as the predecessors of today’s ­white- and blue-­collar workers, respectively. Unlike the merchants and craftsmen of preindustrial society, these new classes were not necessarily tied to one place. Industrial methods of production encouraged the development of progressive capitalism, which gave increasing importance to currency and to the mobility of labor. This in turn further devalued the singular meaning of particular places, tending to transform urban space into a commodity with a m ­ arket-­determined, rather than absolute, value attached to it. Furthermore, by the end of the nineteenth century, many of the world’s great metropolises were no longer housing populations that shared a common ethnic or linguistic background. The interaction of these new multicultural societies tended to erase historical differences between places and to accelerate the development of the modernist city based on homogeneous space. Yet at least in Europe, each metropolis still formed different urban structures based on different patterns of political power. We could compare, for example, the bold geometry of ­nineteenth-­century Paris’s broad new avenues and grand focal points to the more fragmented, picturesque street networks of London in the same period. The former can be seen as a manifestation of the centralized power of the monarchy, while the latter represents the more delicate balance of power shared among London’s large landholders, as the new thoroughfares were required to negotiate the edges of private estates in a localized, case-­by-­case manner. Democratic societies in which the central government is weak compared to the forces of capitalism have produced urban patterns more clearly reflecting the idea of homogeneous, infinitely extendible space. The grid plan typical of American cities provides a rational framework for continuous, unlimited horizontal ­expansion

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that easily accommodates common patterns of capital investment. Even when geography places constraints on horizontal expansion, as in New York’s Manhattan Island, the invention of the skyscraper has ensured that the unlimited production of space is still possible. The ­three-­dimensional production of urban space continues today in a city like Hong Kong, where geographic limitations leave no alternative but the hyperdensification of the city core. Conceiving of space as universal and limitless tends to encourage urban development schemes that treat the city as a tabula rasa—or, topologically speaking, a “zero-­degree operative field”—allowing the investment of capital alone to define landmarks and focal points in the city. We can see in modern Tokyo a historical pattern of weak central government and incremental capital investment that has created a vast horizontal city with fragmentary clusters of density scattered throughout. Los Angeles follows much the same pattern, where the various city subcenters dispersed across the landscape have their origins in private investment rather than communal institutions. At MIT in the late 1960s, Lloyd Rodwin and Kevin Lynch proposed in The Future Metropolis a multinuclear urban structure as a model of future cities. In this model, a historical city core becomes merely one of several nuclei, a relative center rather than an absolute one. In embracing a theory of spatial relativity, a multinuclear urban structure follows naturally from the assumption of infinitely extendible space—they are like two sides of the same coin. The prophetic nature of Rodwin and Lynch’s insight into the forces controlling urban development becomes clear when we compare their model to a plan of Tokyo a mere three decades later. Contemporary Tokyo represents a multinuclear city taken to a new extreme, where a postindustrial consumer society’s preference for “difference for the sake of difference” has encouraged the development of subtle character differentiation between new subcenter nodes that share nearly identical functions. Today we might say that the city is disappearing, if by “city” we mean an urban structure whose form approximates that of a historical capital with a dense central core. Yet as historian and critic Koji Taki has written, even a fragmented metropolis remains a city, in a fundamentally psychological sense, as long as it offers opportunities for nurturing dreams. Dreams give meaning to our very existence in the city. The modern metropolis provides two basic kinds of imagery in constant juxtaposition: the familiar and the strange. Familiar scenery in the city reminds us

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of a common past; it provides comfort and stability. Unfamiliar scenery, on the other hand, provokes both fear and excitement, and in the process unleashes our power of imagination. The city might be characterized as an environment where inhabitants accept and even thrive on the presence of the strange and unfamiliar in their everyday lives. In the sense that unfamiliar scenery entices the imagination and feeds our natural desire for change, the ability of an environment to evoke dreams for the future seems to apply singularly to urban settings. Desire, capital, and political power are the three interrelated forces that shape the modern metropolis. And if the formal structure of our cities has become more diffuse and harder to read, one of the primary causes might be found in the gradual retreat of power and wealth from the public eye. The rise of invis­ ible power—or, to use Michel Foucault’s terminology, “the spatialization of power” 1—is peculiar to the modern age. Throughout past ages, ruling classes have relied on architecture for explicit formal and symbolic expression of their authority, and municipalities have identified themselves with physical structures such as city walls, religious edifices, and places of communal gathering. Beginning with the Enlightenment, however, the importance once attached to formal representations of power began to be replaced by spatial structures that actually enhanced the power of those in authority invisibly. As Foucault points out in his analysis of the ­eighteenth-­century Panopticon, invisible power is no longer the power to inspire good but, rather, the power to isolate or eliminate the undesirable and the weak. Sinister as this may sound, this principle of separating out elements of society based on their degrees of compatibility or desirability is one of the fundamental principles of the modernist utopia, whose basic tool of planning serves, not coincidentally, as the chief agent of invisible power. The fundamental difference between the utopian visions of ­twentieth-­century modernists like Le Corbusier and those of Robert Owen and Charles Fourier from the previous century was the modernists’ conviction that improved social conditions could be attained directly through planning—that is to say, by spatial means. For them, the city of the future would follow a machine model, where the relationship between discrete parts and the whole is rationally structured. An architectural parallel could be drawn to the compositional methodology of De Stijl architecture, where formal control of a technological universe produces the ability to isolate and freely combine ­space-­defining elements. This kind of machine model

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could be drawn only with certain spatial concepts based on universal and limitless space, and implicit in this vision is a high expectation of technological progress. Despite their efforts to arrive at universal principles and methods that would revolutionize the urban environment, however, the ­techno-­utopia advocated by modern protagonists has been in the end only partially and incrementally realized in our cities, due to the realities of capital investment. Just as Owen and Fourier were able to construct models of their visions of socialist communities on a limited, subsidized scale, the most complete utopias of the modern age have been realized under controlled conditions such as university campuses, theme parks, and shopping malls—urbanistically speaking, within quarantined territory. The irony of this condition is that in planning, segregation was originally intended to isolate the undesirable, but at present many cities, particularly in America, use precisely this technique to secure protected, privileged territory. It is worth noting that the most important communality of today’s quarantined utopias is not formal but spatial. At root in the design of theme parks, airport terminals, shopping malls, and cineplexes is the question of how to create commercially desirable spaces. The “spatialization of power” observed by Foucault is nowhere more apparent than in the organization of these highly contrived environments, which are designed to manipulate human movement and consumer desires according to certain proven spatial formulas. We can see how the urban shopping and entertainment complexes of the Rouse Corporation, for example, have followed very recognizable spatial patterns, which can be extended infinitely, both horizontally and vertically, according to the magnitude of capital available and consumer demand. Formal solutions, on the other hand, have tended to disguise spatial homogeneity by responding directly to the demands of a consumer society, again, for difference

3.13 De Stijl composition by Theo van Doesburg. 3.14 Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, Milan, 1877, designed by Giuseppe Mengoni.

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for the sake of difference; a cardinal rule of consumerism is that subjectively added values are frequently more important than actual functional capabilities. These new urban (or ­pseudo-­urban) entities cannot really be considered as types in the traditional sense of sharing similar formal characteristics. But in terms of spatial system, modern hybrid buildings like the interiorized shopping mall have significant historical precedent in the glazed arcades, or passages, of ­nineteenth-­century Europe. And because the impact of the ­nineteenth-­century passage was so far-­reaching, I want to take a moment to consider it and the revolution it would provoke in urban space. As Walter Benjamin pointed out in his study of the passage,2 the simple act of adding a glass roof to an exterior street or alleyway turned out to be radical in its implications: for once carriage traffic was excluded from an essentially exterior streetscape, a ­weather-­protected haven for pedestrians was created that essentially freed them to concentrate on consumer activities. As a commercial sanctuary, the passage attracted a great variety of activities, such as street performers and hawkers—as well as enterprises of a less legitimate nature—to be concentrated in one multifunctional urban space. I like to think of the passage as history’s first instance of ambivalent space—a kind of infinitely extendible space with characteristics of both city and room. As a new and unfamiliar element in the city, the passage came to evoke the dreams and desires of citizens who collected there. An important legacy of the passage was the creation of interiorized multipurpose spaces within the city. Although it was perhaps not immediately apparent to contemporary architects, this development would forever diminish the importance of formal typology in architecture by attacking the idea of formal and functional congruency in buildings. The traditional distinction between general activities

3.15 United States Pavilion, Expo ’67, Montreal, by Buckminster Fuller.

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taking place on the street and specific activities relegated to interior spaces began to be blurred over once both began to be accommodated in an enclosed but still topologically residual, urban space. Once the idea of a one-­to‑one correspondence between interior function and formal expression began to be questioned, the next step would be the emergence of multifunctional buildings, such as the Downtown Athletic Club that Rem Koolhaas describes in Delirious New York.3 Conceptually, the multifunctional building usurps and interiorizes many of the functions of the city and becomes itself a “city within the city.” Here, traditional divisions between inside and outside, public and private, main and servant spaces have become more ambiguous and multivalent. The passage also engendered a modern legacy in spatial terms: it is not too large a leap from the passages of the nineteenth century to Mies van der Rohe’s proposal for a universal exhibition space. Like the glazed roof of the passage, Mies’s roof structure is so distant and vast that it ceases to engage the scale of human activity below. Our sense of spatial definition is limited to ­smaller-­scale architectural elements at ground level, which, once freed from the functional responsibility of weather protection, can be freely configured to suit the needs of each temporary exhibition. Mies’s exhibition hall proposal demonstrates one of the purest interpretations of universal, limitless space posited by the Modern movement; it is singularly pragmatic and devoid of utopian overtones. The role of technology here serves not as a protagonist in the creation of a new social order but as a means of enabling new kinds of spaces and new spatial relationships to be conceived and realized. Buckminster Fuller’s exploration of the geodesic dome structure shows a similar attitude with respect to the neutral role of technology and the attempt to describe universal concepts of space. The task that Fuller set himself was quite

3.16 Plan of Schinkel’s villa for Prince Wilhelm in Potsdam, 1833.

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different in nature, however; he wished to enclose a space using minimal surface area—that is, with minimal materials or at minimal cost. His approach can thus be seen as giving priority to space over form. At the time, his ideas had less impact than the De Stijl-­inspired principles articulated by Mies, but still I think Fuller’s approach to conceiving space in terms of boundaries and membranes was one of the most important developments of our times. With the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the ­twenty­first, our perception of space has entered a new phase, the inevitable result of pluralism and globalization. We expect more and different kinds and qualities of space in our everyday experience, and new techniques for manipulating space are constantly being elaborated. Innovative structural systems that cover and/or define a variety of spaces—not only orthogonal but increasingly curved and polyhedral spaces—represent one of the areas in which building technology has made significant contributions to recent architecture. As spatial systems become bigger and more complex, the demarcation of territory becomes less clear psychologically and optically. Perhaps as a result, there seems to be a renewed interest in perceptual phenomena in space over the last several years; new applications of glass and other ­light-­transmitting materials are being explored in architecture to produce subtle, hitherto undiscovered relationships between spaces, and hence between their inhabitants. In his review of the 1995 “Light Construction” exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, Herbert Muschamp writes: “There are few issues more important in architecture now than the question of how buildings shape and define our relationship to others.” 4 For all the timeliness of this statement, it might similarly have been used hundreds of years ago to describe the communalizing function of a medieval town’s central

3.17 Plan of the Katsura Detached Palace in Kyoto.

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piazza and fortress walls. But Muschamp’s point is well taken: it is not style or representation that keeps architecture relevant to the city but, rather, the spatial relationships it creates in the image of society. The city itself merely accommodates a variety of spaces where each individual makes free and selective association with others, both familiar and strange; the city is a medium through which the individual perceives the outside world. If the architecture that excites us today has to do with investigating qualities of translucency, screening, and the creation of overlapping spaces and visions, this might indicate a sociological trend more than a formal one: with the dissolution of traditional ­space-­defining elements, we are becoming more sensitive in perceiving subtle indications of territorial definition. At the same time, while we all might agree on the basic assumption that space itself is universal, I believe we are becoming more aware of how different cultures maintain different spatial biases. It is not merely a difference of forms and materials, for example, that separates Schinkel’s informal villas from the Katsura Palace in Kyoto, though both represent within their respective cultures important milestones in the evolution of spatial structures based on asymmetry and narrative sequence. And although many valid comparisons have been made between the formal strategies of traditional Japanese and De Stijl architecture, it would not be fair to say that a building such as the Katsura Palace in any way treats space, as the European modernists did, as homogeneous and neutral. Our histories of architecture tend to concentrate on issues of form because it is easier to describe with both words and illustration; space tends to recede into indescribability. But if one were to research and write a history of space—and I think that this would be a very challenging and worthwhile task—one might discover a different view of how cities and societies evolved over the ages. Like many other kinds of histories (political, literary, etc.), this spatial history would probably be characterized by periodic oscillations between two theoretical poles: in this case, an architecture based on closed forms versus an architecture of universal space. If this theory is true, then the twentieth century would represent only a temporary, though extreme, swing in the direction of universal space. The architecture of our current age, which relies increasingly on intuition and the senses in the experience of the city, may indicate a reaction against the dominant spatial trend of the twentieth century. It implies a rejection of the homogeneous space of modernism, a need to create a new sense of topos in the city, and a return to the subjective worldview it implies.

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Ref l e c t i o n s o n Ha r va rd’s 1 9 5 6 Urba n Desig n Conference

In 1956, Josep Lluis Sert organized the first Urban Design Conference at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, inviting architects and designers from around the world to discuss the design of contemporary cities. As a young architect at the time, the event was a formative event in my career, and I suppose in the careers of many others as well. Looking back now fifty years to those days of heated discussion and debate, which issues addressed there continue to be significant today, and what does their continued significance tell us about our present circumstances? Mine is the point of view of someone born, raised, and practicing architecture in Tokyo. At the same time, neither I nor anyone living in any region or state today can escape the effects of globalization on politics, economy, and lifestyle. This flow has led to newly reciprocal relationships. This is an age when the presence of over a hundred sushi bars in Manhattan or the brisk sales of Spanish Colonial Style houses in Tokyo suburbs raise few eyebrows. Therefore, in any discussion of social and infrastructural conditions in Tokyo, an understanding of their significance can be arrived at only by comparing and analyzing similar phenomena in metropolises in the United States, Europe, and Asia. We are entering a time when having at least two points of view—regional and global—is becoming as indispensable to urban studies as it is to cultural anthropology. I would like to quote, by way of introduction, from the preface of Incomplete Cities by Yosuke Hirayama, a Japanese urbanist. Hirayama identifies a condition common to contemporary cities from an analysis of entirely separate processes of reconstruction experienced by three cities after complete or partial destruction:

Kobe after the 1995 earthquake, Lower Manhattan residential districts over the past several decades, and East and West Berlin during their reintegration after 1989: A destroyed city calls forth a space of competition. The question of what will be reconstructed by whom, for whom, and for what purpose gives rise to socially and politically competitive relationships. Land where a now-­vanished building once stood is not a pristine empty lot. Whose place is it? What is to be constructed there? What will new construction contribute? This series of questions drives the dynamics of friction. . . . In any experience of “destruction/​construction,” the question arises: how are the myriad views voiced in the “space of competition” to be respected? As long as, and precisely because, the city is incomplete, emphasis on any particular direction calls forth dissent and challenges; that in turn opens up new possibilities. If the presence of large numbers of human beings is a necessary condition of the city, all persons ought to have the right to be heard in the “space of competition.” Tolerance of myriad views is indeed the distinguishing characteristic of the city.1

Half a century after CIAM drew an ideal image of the city in its Athens Charter, we find a more complex and conflicted urban image emerging. T h e L e g a c y o f the 1 9 5 6 Ur b an De si g n Con f eren c e

In 1952, I left Japan, a country still bearing the scars of World War II, to study in the United States. Four years later, while in a postgraduate program at Harvard, I attended the First Urban Design Conference. I was able to participate in several of the subsequent annual conferences, but the 1956 conference left the deepest impression on me. One reason was that a heady atmosphere was created by the gathering of leading figures in architecture and urban design such as Richard Neutra. Another was an awareness shared by all that in attending the first conference of its kind in the United States, we were most likely participating in a pivotal event. I was especially impressed by Jane Jacobs’s passionate plea on behalf of endangered neighborhood districts in New York, and the energy exuded by Edmund Bacon as he explained the redevelopment plan for Philadelphia.

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The 1956 conference had special historical significance: 1.

2.

3.

The phrase “urban design” was used extensively for the first time. Urban design began to be recognized and defined as an important interdisciplinary field ­focusing on the formation of ­three-­dimensional urban spaces. Urban design was shortly thereafter included in the postgraduate programs of many educational institutions. The conference was a perfect opportunity for Josep Lluis Sert, its host, to transfer to the United States the intellectual and practical foundations of CIAM, which he had chaired and which then was threatened by division and disbandment. The Urban Design Conferences subsequently created opportunities for exchanges of ideas between Team X, representing the generation after CIAM, and American academics. New urban design university programs accepted many students from not only Europe but also Asia, South America, and the Middle East. On returning to their countries, those students began to create centers of study. The development of permanent relationships among such universities through shared conferences has been noteworthy. Moreover, through the use of the city of the host institution as the theme of workshops, such relationships have offered students fresh perspectives on urban design.2 In the 1950s, active ­cross-­fertilization was occurring in the United States between academics and architects, city planners, administrators, and developers of cities. Setbacks to the public housing policy actively pursued since the New Deal, the arrival of the Baby Boomers and extensive suburbanization, and the influx of immigrants to the ­inner-­city areas were forcing a comprehensive reappraisal of urban problems.

Of the issues highlighted by the conference fifty years ago, two that might be profitably discussed today are the meaning of the central district and of community. I have not said “the revival of central districts” and “the development of communities.” Not only the possibility but also the wisdom of downtown revival and ­community-­building are in question today. Problems such as increasing inequality among urban residents and the effect of automobiles on urbanization, already pointed out in the 1956 conference, are behind such doubts.

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T h e M ay R e v o luti o n and the Fall o f th e Berlin Wall

These two swift events, one in the late 1960s and the other in the late 1980s, brought with them important transitions in the ideas and practices of urban design. Largely in response to the war in Vietnam, the student unrest throughout the world and the May Revolution in Paris forced many people to reexamine existing social systems and ideas. It was just around that time—1965, to be precise—that I withdrew from a ­university-­centered life in the United States and began design activities in Tokyo. Two years later, when I returned to the GSD as a visiting faculty member, I encountered entirely different student ways of thinking. Students rejected the program we had prepared, and insisted that work begin with the development of a joint proposal for the architecture Master’s program itself. Even though they were paying high tuition fees, they took the position that extensive discussions on certain contemporary urban design issues were far more important than acquiring urban design skills. Let us recollect Hirayama’s remark: “All persons ought to have the right to be heard in the ‘space of competition.’ Tolerance of myriad views is indeed the distinguishing characteristic of the city.” University studios in the 1960s were indeed what he would call “spaces of competition.” Since 9/11, the process of rebuilding New York’s downtown has shown us quite vividly what a project about which myriad views are held and expressed is actually like. The participation of large numbers of people of different opinions helped bring about a major change in our perception of the city in the 1960s. That coincided, especially in metropolises, with the gradual fading of the urban image—the collective memory and meaning of each city. The fading of meaning accelerated the experiential transformation of the city into an abstraction. Today, everyone in a metropolis constructs and possesses his or her own image of it—first of their immediate environment and of places familiar to them. The vague and abstract overall image of the metropolis, acquired through the media, merely floats above that construct like a cloud. The appearance in 1960 of Kevin Lynch’s The Image of the City was in tune with the increasing abstraction of the city. I was among those who welcomed the publication of that study as the emergence of a new way of perceiving the city, but it also heralded the transformation of the city into mere signs. Today, the temporal and geographical environment of everyday activities has, for most people, an

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unprecedented shallowness: the city seems comprised only of the here and now; historical depth is absent. The multicentered net, which Lynch and Lloyd Rodwin, his colleague at MIT, jointly proposed as a model for the city of the near future is today becoming the actual pattern of many metropolises.3 These centers, which cater to specific sociopolitical or ethnic tendencies, are not central districts. They are nothing more than options from which citizens, leading varied lives, may choose; their forms, too, are diversifying. And what of the urban community—does it still exist? The community model we unconsciously shared fifty years ago—a stable, synchronic group of spaces centered on housing and neighborhood facilities—has been vanishing. The main factors contributing to this development are the geographical mobility of urban residents, the growing inequality among citizens that is promoting this mobility, and the increasing treatment of land as a mere commodity. The fall of the Berlin Wall at the end of the 1980s accelerated those trends, particularly the worldwide transformation of cities into marketable commodities. The tearing down of the Berlin Wall gave people in surrounding regions new freedoms, but the elimination of the safety net of state socialism also promoted the sudden expansion beyond national borders of capital, information, and desire. And the breakup of the Soviet Union, until then the greatest hypothetical enemy of the West among Communist states, spurred the liberalization of the Chinese economy and led to a precipitous change in the balance of the world market. Historically, the city has been an organic entity composed of people of different economic, social, and ethnic or religious backgrounds. However, people of relatively similar background have naturally tended to create distinct communities, and through these communities contribute to the maintenance of the city as a whole. This phenomenon of people of similar background clustering together might be called “territorialization.” The city remains stable as long as balance is maintained among the different territories and friction at boundaries is minimal. The dynamics of friction can destabilize urban territories and the communities that come into contact with them. The area around the central district of Philadelphia, of which Bacon had spoken so passionately at the 1956 conference, is, in a painful irony, among the most decayed areas in America today. The same destabilization may be seen in Detroit and Los Angeles. At the same time, protected gated communities are spreading in cities throughout the country.

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The physical formation and maintenance of community were core skills of urban designers. Such skills, however, are applicable only when urban residents share certain commonalities. This is increasingly rare in contemporary society, where everyone’s circumstances are immensely varied. A skill applicable in one instance is inapplicable in another. That is also true in Japanese cities, which I will discuss in greater detail. In my view, the only successful examples of communities today are Singapore in Asia, and perhaps Copenhagen and Barcelona among European cities. Given the expansion of the EU, increased movement of the population between cities and regions, growing disparity in the level of education among inhabitants, and global mobility of employees, however, maintaining sustainable communities will be a difficult task even for those European cities considered successful. Their polar opposites are the enormous metropolises of an entirely different scale in developing regions that are divided into the haves and the have-­nots. Then there is Shanghai, a city of sixteen million whose massive growth has been supported by a rural workforce imported to the city—a workforce that is not, however, afforded the same rights as those given to other residents. On the other hand, excessive concentration of capital has led to increasingly skewed developments such as 1,000‑meter-­high skyscrapers in Dubai. These huge facilities can be considered heteromorphic cells that destroy the city by abnormally concentrating similar market demands (for office, retail, or hotel) in a single location. The excessive investment of capital in places where meaning has faded to zero produces hallucinatory visions suggestive of cities in science fiction. If the pursuit of a balanced spatial alignment between the central district and the community was indeed the objective of the urban design conference fifty years ago, then urban phenomena like these make a mockery of that effort. P o s i t i v e a nd Ne g ati v e Aspe cts o f Ur b a n Design in T okyo

Tokyo’s morphology is probably unique among metropolises: it is like a mosaic. The individual pieces are extremely small and varied, their connections often hidden. There is no other metropolis of its size in the world that manages to maintain a stable order with this sort of configuration. Tokyo is the polar opposite of the clearly ordered city promoted by the Athens Charter. How did this sort of metropolis come into being? Tokyo’s system was created through the overlapping of countless partial additions and revisions—made

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during 150 years of modernization as opportunities afforded by external factors (including disasters) presented themselves—in a complex pattern based principally on topography. Japan is one of the few modern states to have succeeded in creating a society with little disparity between rich and poor, even though it boasts the ­second­biggest economy in the world. Racial, religious, and social homogeneity have also contributed to the development of a singular condition: even as the pieces of the mosaic continually divided and led to increased boundaries between them, these did not immediately generate border frictions. In societies with large disparities between rich and poor, units of territorialization have become ever larger in order to minimize border frictions. American cities offer good examples of this. Another unique characteristic of metropolitan Tokyo is that it is the most conspicuous realization of the urban model proposed by Lynch and Rodwin: the multicentered city. But its structure might be better described as nebular. The countless centers in ­inner-­city districts are connected by subway and express train systems more closely knit than any other comparable systems in the world. This transportation system is without equal in the world in frequency of operation, punctuality, cleanliness, safety, and the provision of services. It is this infrastructure that enables the many focal points of interest in Tokyo to be understood as both coherent individual units and a cohesive, though diverse, whole. These constitute the positive aspects of urban design in Tokyo. What are the negative ones? First, the failure of practically all cities in Japan, including Tokyo, to develop an urban infrastructure of housing in the course of modernization. Although there may be many excellent or interesting individual buildings, most remain points of singularity and fail to contribute to the creation of any larger social asset. Although the Japanese live longer than any other people in the world, they are producing fewer children, leading to a decrease in population and a surplus of housing. ­Poorer-­quality or badly located suburban bedroom towns built for a once-­growing population are increasingly empty. Second, development projects at various scales in metropolises by different interests including international financial capital, combined with the absence of effective city planning, have led to a partial breakdown of balanced territorialized communities and the generation of increasingly severe conflicts between residents and developers—who are tending to raise the density of central districts at the

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expense of views and daylighting. These phenomena are particularly notable in cities of fewer than 200,000 with inadequate mass transportation systems and a greater dependence on automobiles. Many older shopping districts in the city centers have lost business to suburban shopping centers and are becoming ghost towns. Many central districts are abandoned and deteriorating. In recent years, large business interests have been undertaking redevelopment projects in Tokyo, spurred in part by economic recovery. There is, for example, the 2003 Roppongi Hills, an office, residential, and commercial complex built over seventeen years in the middle of Tokyo. In contrast to the sense of repose offered by my design for Hillside Terrace (an urban complex whose gradual development over a ­quarter-­century I have described earlier in this volume), Roppongi Hills and similar large aggregate projects generate an instantaneous, new, and vibrant urban energy. Supported by a favorable location and the support of the aforementioned infrastructure, Roppongi Hills has been enormously popular, drawing ­twenty-­five million visitors in its first four months. If we consider that only ­twenty-­five of the UN’s member nations have a population of ­twenty-­five million, these new centers are like Disneyland in their ability to draw such huge numbers in such a short time. W h at I s U rb an De si g n?

Using Tokyo as an example, I have pointed out the uniqueness of metropolises; each has special conditions and contexts on the micro scale and relationships to regional, national, and global phenomena on the macro scale. However, no matter how complex the given context may be, and even if the various factors mentioned must be taken into consideration, urban design in reality remains a skill that demands their interpretation into ­three-­dimensional space within a fixed time, budget, and program. Sert’s fundamental message at the 1956 Conference was essentially this: that the central concern of urban design must be humankind; that we are designing, not for specific individuals, but for the people and with the people. We must give careful thought to the man in the street who looks at buildings and moves around them. We must use our imagination and artistic capacities in trying to realize desirable places.

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The recently completed Museum of Modern Art reconstruction in New York has been much discussed. Its architect is Yoshio Taniguchi. Its refined modernist exterior succeeds in respecting the exteriors of past stages in MoMA’s history and the Sculpture Garden, while giving New York a new urban context. Architects, critics, artists, and nearly all members of the public have been excited by and extolled the spatial experience of its interior. The architectural elements of MoMA have been thoroughly neutralized. The visitor revels in scenes of numerous superb works of art, fragmentary glimpses of the Manhattan townscape, and the movement of fellow visitors in the interior spaces. I would call it one of the best works of urban design of its period. This building embodies the spirit of urban design that Sert invoked in 1956: sympathy to neighboring city fabric, delight in moving from place to place (just as in the street), and encouragement of people being with other people. MoMA has become a spiritual sanctuary, a place where visitors can be alone and enjoy the repose of leisure time, all the while surrounded by the movement and light of the city. The new MoMA gives magnificent visual and spatial expression to something that New Yorkers had felt only vaguely until now: the desire for and possibility of interior urbanity, something not so easily and clearly experienced at the less architecturally neutral Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Perhaps the reason for the ­decades-­long popularity of Hillside Terrace among the general public lies in the fact that it, too, satisfies a collective desire. When such a thing occurs, an urban or architectural space can be said to acquire a public character in the true sense. Vitruvius’s venustas (“delight”) has forever been a universal emotion, an invaluable part of our genetic makeup. I have spent much of this essay explaining how urban design has become more complex and difficult in the last half-­century. However, the fact that the basic human need for delight has remained largely unchanged gives us architects and urban designers both encouragement and a clear objective. A current project in New York for a high-­r ise apartment building, with four­story units, each no doubt served by its own elevator, cantilevered from a single core like a lily of the valley, was made public and became the subject of much discussion at about the same time as MoMA. Each unit is said to have a price of $30 million. This building can be characterized, in Veblenian terms, as an extreme display of conspicuous consumption. No matter how bold its structure or how

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wonderful its aesthetic expression, the project seems to me amoral. Yes, morality is another quality demanded of urban design. This may not be explicitly stated in the minutes of the conference fifty years ago, but when Charles Abrams pointed out the inequalities suffered by the urban poor, and Jane Jacobs argued for the preservation of a street society, they were indirectly appealing to that higher law on which a city ideally is based. At least, that’s my interpretation.

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Th e J a pa n e se C i t y a nd Inner Spa ce

Pr e face

To foreign visitors and even to many residents, Tokyo appears to be a paradigm of urban chaos, spatially confusing and structurally illegible. Nevertheless, every city with a long history possesses an internal logic in its physical form, however unclear or inconsistent this logic may appear at first, and Tokyo is no exception. In the chaos of its urban plan, we can read a rich collage of patterns and figures, which relate a colorful, contradictory history of several centuries of urban growth. In preface to a discussion of certain aspects of Japanese space conception and urban form, a brief history of Tokyo may be helpful to those who are unfamiliar with the city. Tokyo, originally known as Edo, began as a settlement around the ­tenth­century castle of the feudal lord Ota Dokan. The original development took place at the mouth of the Sumida River along Edo Bay, on the fertile Kanto Plain. The city was laid out in accordance with an ideal Chinese model, with Edo Castle at its center. In this model, each cardinal direction carried symbolic meanings and a strategic importance that corresponded quite readily to Edo’s geographical situation. A spiraling system of canals surrounding Edo Castle served to protect it from attacks but also connected it to the Sumida River to allow easy transport of goods. The flat land between the castle and the river naturally became a district of merchants and craftsmen, known as the Shitamachi (“low city”). In 1605, Tokugawa Ieyasu selected Edo as the seat of his new shogunate. Direct communication between Edo and the rest of the country became critical, and radial thoroughfares from the castle to outer regions were overlaid on the existing city plan. Important daimyo (lords) took up residence on land surrounding Edo

Castle, particularly in the hilly Yamanote (“high city”) district to the west. Many large estates occupied hilltops affording commanding views and covered by lush greenery. Shrines and temples also developed in the Yamanote hills. By 1710 Edo’s population had grown to more than one million, making it at that time the world’s largest city. Land ownership was by no means equitable: members of the feudal upper classes, though small in number, lived on nearly ­three-­quarters of the land, while the larger population of craftsmen and merchants occupied a mere fraction of the city. The city plan as a whole was developing into a fairly complex array of overlapping figures and patterns. The flat, densely populated Shitamachi was characterized by a fairly regular grid plan, intersected by canals and radial roads. Lower-­rank samurai also lived in neighborhoods based on grid patterns, though there the streets were spaced further apart. The spacious lands of the daimyo were developed more freely and adapted to the irregular topography and natural features of the high city. Edo developed into a spectacular garden city of great scenic variety. With the Meiji Restoration in 1867, the emperor came to rule in Edo, which was renamed Tokyo (“East Capital”). The new government, intent on Japan’s rapid modernization, brought about many changes to the urban form. Railroads, bridges, and other civil engineering projects knitted together formerly isolated parts of the city. Following Japan’s renewed contact with Western nations, city planners introduced broad avenues and ­European-­style zoning regulations. At first, powerful landowners were able to resist government efforts to develop their land; however, the end of feudal privileges and declining fortunes eventually forced most of them to sell off their property piecemeal. Large estates were divided over time into smaller lots. Although this process of subdivision often introduced a grid pattern, there was generally no attempt to coordinate these separate grids. The resulting city plan was a fragmented patchwork of grids and other patterns. Destruction wrought by the Second World War created another opportunity to rebuild the city with a stronger infrastructure; new motorways and rail lines were overlaid on the old plan. At the same time, the old patterns—spiral and radial lines, grids, and free forms adapted to topography—remained imprinted on the urban form. The overlapping of plan systems in Tokyo, the fact that no one system can be read as dominant, gives the city an elusive, seemingly chaotic character. Nevertheless, beyond these conflicting patterns, several identifiable spatial and morphological principles have developed continuously over many centuries; familiarity with these principles may enable us to see ­present-­day Tokyo more clearly.

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L aye r s o f Space

In sharp contrast with the high-­city Yamanote section of Tokyo, the low-­city Nihonbashi district (where my office was originally located) has been a mercantile center ever since the capital was called Edo. The flat, low-­lying area extending from Nihonbashi to the ­Ningyo-­cho and ­Akashi-­cho neighborhoods lies on land that was reclaimed piecemeal from the sea. This part of the city has also been razed by fire many times. Neighborhoods are now divided by straight roads into square blocks because of these circumstances. The main streets, lined with ­medium-­r ise and high-­r ise buildings, are today scarcely to be distinguished from main streets in high-­city Tokyo. As soon as we leave the main streets, however, we find mostly two-­story houses clustered on both sides of narrow roads tucked between taller buildings. Narrow lanes separate house from house, and in summer the overhanging ­second-­story balconies are often screened with reed or bamboo blinds. Though nothing of the dim interiors can be seen from the street, the faintest hint of movement within makes us aware of layers of space peculiar to Japan. Thus even in the low city, which does not have the topographical variety of high-­city areas, we can discover an amazing diversity of spatial forms even today. The terms omote (front) and ura (back) have traditionally been used in explaining this typically Japanese phenomenon. There has long been a tendency in Japan, evident in such terms as omote-­dori (main street) and ura-­dori (back street), omote-­mon (front gate) and ura-­mon (back gate), to establish hierarchical relationships that identify dominant and subordinate elements in urban space and living patterns, although such a tendency is by no means limited to this country. However, this distinction seems to me insufficient to explain the essential character of Japanese space—that is, to account for phenomena that are deeply rooted in the collective unconscious of most local communities. The concept of omote and ura cannot fully explain the manifold layers of Japanese space. The founding of a city or smaller community is always a matter of collective or individual will. Unlike individual dwellings, a city or community is shaped by norms developed over a long period of time. Of course such norms may be abrogated and different standards established in the face of new external conditions. As the history of cities and communities the world over tends to show, however, norms peculiar to specific areas are few. In fact, the basic patterns

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of community structure are far smaller in number than the types of buildings arranged in those patterns. Those patterns also change very little in comparison with such external conditions as transportation, social institutions, and lifestyles, which undergo constant transformation. Cities today are undergoing greater changes than ever before. Perplexed by this kaleidoscopic world, we often try to cope by piecemeal treatment of symptoms instead of root causes. We must first understand what is unchangeable or resistant to change in order to reach a true understanding of what we must or can change. Having traveled to many cities abroad, I am inclined to believe that multilayered spaces are among the few phenomena observable only in Japan. The Japanese have always postulated the existence of what is called oku (innermost area) at the core of this high-­density space organized into multiple layers like an onion, and the concept of oku has enabled them to elaborate and give depth to even a delimited area. In the formation of urban space, certain stable concepts that have been sifted and committed to memory by the collective unconscious of the community work automatically. Oku, a spatial concept peculiar to Japan, is a good example, and I believe an understanding of this way of perceiving space is important in formulating ideas of what future cities should be like. A centripetal okusei, or inwardness, has always been basic to space formation in Japan, from village to metropolis. Understanding the concept of a centrifugal center found in other cultures will make this centripetal inwardness in Japan easier to comprehend. First, however, a brief discussion of oku, or inner space, as found in Japanese surroundings is in order. The word oku, expressing a distinctive Japanese sense of space, has long been a part of the vocabulary of daily life, as is evident from such literary classics as the ­eighth-­century anthology of poetry called the Man’yoshu (Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves), the ­tenth-­century Ise monogatari (Tales of Ise), the ­fourteenth­century Tsurezuregusa (Essays in Idleness), and kabuki plays of the Edo Period. It is interesting to note that the use of the term with respect to space is invariably premised on the idea of okuyuki, or depth, signifying relative distance or the sense of distance within a given space. The Japanese, long accustomed to a fairly high population density, must have conceived space as something finite and dense and, in consequence, developed from early in their history a sensitivity finely attuned to relative distance within a

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delimited area. Only that can satisfactorily explain the concept of okuyuki. The Japanese distinguish an innermost portion even when a space measures only a hundred meters—or, for that matter, only ten meters—in extent, and carefully lay out a route leading to that portion. Only in that context can the idea of multilayered space, and the Japanese attempt to structure space—we might even go so far as to say the Japanese conception of the cosmos—be understood. Oku also has a number of abstract connotations, including profundity and unfathomability, so that the word is used to describe not only physical but psychological depth. It is interesting to note how often the Japanese use the word in adjectival form. Such usages include oku-­dokoro (inner place), oku-­guchi (inner entrance), oku-­sha (inner shrine), oku-­yama (mountain recesses), and oku-­zashiki (inner room), all relevant to the notion of physical space; oku-­gi (secret or hidden principles) and oku-­den (secret mysteries of an art), referring to things invisible but present in hidden form; and o‑oku (wife of a shogun) and oku-­no‑in or oku-­gata (wife of an aristocrat or nobleman), terms suggesting social position.1 Evident in the use of all these words is a tendency to recognize and esteem what is hidden, invisible, or secret. The painter and essayist Eiji Usami’s Meiro no oku (The Inner Labyrinth) is one of the earliest essays on the sense of inwardness in Japanese space. Usami notes this inwardness in the mazelike effect produced by the winding corridors of ­Japanese-­style inns found in tourist resorts and spas, buildings much more spacious inside than their unpretentious exteriors suggest. Usami speculates that this complex division of space not only results from the gradual accretion of extra rooms and extensions, or from architectural considerations necessitated by topography and landscape, but also conforms to and reflects a Japanese propensity for labyrinths. He writes:

3.18 Plan of a Kyoto machiya (townhouse): entering from the street (to the left), one passes in a linear fashion from the most public to the most private rooms of the house, which are set deep into the city block.

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What causes the feeling of weariness and isolation—the exaggerated sense of being far from home—that comes over us when we arrive at an inn and are shown to our room by a maid? Is it a sort of animal sense—the complete submission to the natural continuity of time we feel arising in us as we follow the long corridor, searching with our eyes for landmarks with every twist and turn—that brings our souls to (putting it somewhat floridly) the état d’âme of our remote ancestors? Or is it that the changed aspect presented by every turn and the slight irregularity in the rhythm of our footfalls in going up and down stairs gradually lures our minds from reality toward illusion? Does not this sense of distance signify how far we have strayed into a world of fantasy? 2 I n n e r Spa ce in Dwe lling s

Examining inner space in traditional Japanese dwellings after noting its existence in the recesses of mountains and woods, in ­Japanese-­style gardens as artificial and dwarfed transfigurations of nature, and in the narrow backstreets of cities enables us to perceive that oku has been given a still more clearly defined location and status in such houses. Several years back, I had occasion to call on an elderly woman at her modest machiya (merchant’s townhouse) in ­Akashi-­cho in the Tsukiji district of low-­city Tokyo. Stepping into the house through a latticed door slightly over a meter in width, I found not in front of me but to one side a raised doorsill leading to a small, 4.5‑mat (about ­seven-­square-­meter) room behind shoji panels. In the center of the room was a kotatsu, a ­quilt-­covered table built over a sunken pit. Light

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entered from the street, which ran parallel to the vestibule through which I had entered. This section of the house was used for receiving guests. Behind this room was a second 4.5‑mat room combining the functions of kitchen and bedroom. I was amazed at the complexity of orientation and density of space manifest in a total floor space of only 26 square meters or so. The presence of a household Shinto shrine, a family Buddhist altar, and a tokonoma alcove added to the complexity and reinforced the feeling of inwardness and depth. I was struck by how the orientation of space peculiar to a ­Japanese-­style inn as described by Usami, which leads us ever inward (unlike a Western hotel, which seems to stretch outward from the center) still survives today in modest family dwellings. Moreover, it not only exists as a spatial concept but permeates more abstract social structures by way of the collective unconscious, thus universalizing the concept of inner space. Why has what might be called a “philosophy of inner space” been cultivated since ancient times in the Japanese cultural tradition? The Pr o to type o f I nne r Spac e

The Pacific coast of the Japanese archipelago, especially the area stretching from the Kanto plain of central Honshu down to Kyushu, which has been settled since very early times, is favored with a relatively mild climate and abundant water, as well as variegated scenery and forests of evergreen trees. It is popularly believed that these natural features nurtured the typically Japanese outlook on nature. This, of course, refers only to the time since the Yayoi period (c. 200 bc–­c. 250 ad), when rice cultivation became widespread; before that, our ancestors lived mainly

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3.19 Diagram of an archetypal Japanese village, with its “inner space” hidden deep in the mountain.

by hunting and gathering, and would have had little time for appreciating the beauty of their makeshift mountain abodes. However, the spread of rice cultivation and the settling of people in the plains in the Yayoi period gave rise to a noteworthy development. A distinction came to be made between lowland villages, where people lived, and mountains, which became special areas, a realm outside ordinary people’s sphere of activity. Thus set apart, mountains gradually became more exalted and sacred, until eventually they became taboo areas that were objects of naturalistic worship. This is how Shinto, an amalgam of animism and shamanism, was born. As Yuichiro Kojiro has pointed out in his study of the Japanese community, the prototype of the Japanese rural community is the farming village, comprising rice paddies and a cluster of houses set against a mountain backdrop.3 This is highly significant, for it graphically suggests the presence of inner space. The typical village has an elongated form that follows a highway skirting mountains and overlooking paddy fields. Perpendicular to this axis is a religious axis, linking the village to a village shrine at the foot of a mountain and an inner shrine (oku-­sha) in the recesses of the mountain. Here, for the first time, inner space has a religious dimension, in that it suggests the direction in which the seat of a deity (kami) lies. This indeed is the prototype for a pattern found throughout the country, including Tokyo: a shrine building, set back slightly from the street, standing in front of a grove of trees. The inner shrine is located deep in a mountain because it is believed that important things should remain hidden; a winding mountain trail therefore provides the only access. This is in sharp contrast to the European pattern in which the church, the center and symbol of faith, is deliberately built in a conspicuous location. If my characterization of this as an example of inner space is correct, then

3.20 Panoramic view of a typical rural Japanese village.

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the concept of oku has existed in Japan’s local communities from remote times. Although in this case inner space may have represented a world set apart that was an object of worship, it was not entirely divorced from everyday life. In the seventh century, people began to regard mountain recesses (oku-­yama) as objects of aesthetic appreciation. Many Japanese mountains appear rounded and gently sloping, especially when viewed from a distance. The idea of incorporating images of mountains and rivers in gardens may not have suggested itself had Japan possessed a different kind of scenery. Would it occur to people in India and Spain, with their rugged, treeless mountains, or Borneo—an island in the monsoon region like Japan, but one located in the tropical zone—with its 4,100‑meter Mount Kinabalu, a harsh, blackened peak with a flattened top, to incorporate miniature domains of such landscapes in their gardens? However, the Japanese idea of oku is not associated solely with mountains. The word itself is said to be derived from oki, meaning offshore waters. Shinobu Origuchi, a scholar of Japanese literature, theorizes that gods were believed to have come from across the sea. If oku does indeed imply the seat of a deity, then we can logically conclude that both the mountains and the sea had their respective oku, their own inner depths. Had religion in Japan been monotheistic, the idea of oku would not have become so pervasive in Japanese life. By studying the significance of woods and land in Japan’s ethnological history, we can get an even better idea of the pervasiveness of the idea of inner space. Many of the mountains regarded as divine are covered with beautiful woods or rise in smooth, rounded shapes. Even wooded hills in plains, regardless of size, are accorded special treatment by local villagers. Ancient burial mounds to be found even in the vicinity of ­present-­day Tokyo were apparently modeled after natural mountains. Often a small shrine is hidden in the trees that cover a mound. Such mounds were probably among Japan’s first man-­made symbols. Interestingly, these symbols of power, which the philosopher Takeshi Umehara calls the first monumental structures to be built in Japan, assumed a ­pseudo-­natural appearance. This was true even for landforms constructed on a more modest scale. For example, a small shrine was often erected on a hillock in the garden to house the god of the harvest and other household deities. As this demonstrates, elevated land was considered the seat of the god of the land; foliage represented a secluded natural environment appropriate to a god. Such places suggest, by slight changes in the lay of the land, trees and views, the subtle nuances to be found in nature.

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In Bungaku ni okeru genfukei (The Primary Landscape in Japanese Literature), literary critic Takeo Okuno writes that until the early Showa period, folk beliefs were still attached to the small shrines, stone Buddhist images, and stone monuments that were found here and there in open fields in Tokyo’s high-­city Yamanote area where he played as a boy. Okuno writes that, even after folk beliefs such as the god of the land had been absorbed into the beliefs of the larger community in guardian and tutelary gods, certain areas of open fields continued to have a fantastic, magical quality.4 His observation points out the fact that the Japanese city was (and in all likelihood still is) in certain respects an enormous village, and has always been inherently rural in character. Okuno concludes that open fields in the city were taboo areas, not just undeveloped vacant lots. Needless to say, such areas were latent inner spaces. Japan’s Pacific coastal areas generally project a cheerful, benign image. By contrast, Japan’s folk history with respect to the land and soil is dark. The Japanese interest in the subtlest contours of the land stems from a strong, sometimes abnormal attachment to the land. People’s worship of the land, revealed by myriad stories and legends, has become a part of the collective unconscious. Although the particulars of that worship have been mostly forgotten, attachment to the land remains very much alive even in modern socioeconomic institutions. Thus, any space that functions as a private sanctuary is given ritualized status as an inner space, or oku. In no other country have people been so attached to land and so little disposed to regard buildings standing on land as permanent. In Japan, urban space means land, not structures. I n n e r Spa ce v e r sus Ce nte r

A visitor to an old European city, especially a small one, will find the most important and impressive buildings, such as churches and the municipal hall, concentrated in the central district. Unlike a Japanese castle, which stands above its castle town, important buildings in a European city are not isolated but part of the everyday environment, even though they assert their importance. Many churches have soaring spires clearly visible from any part of town. Nowadays most people regard a church spire as nothing more than a landmark, but once it meant much more. In ancient times the city was a domain of order set apart from chaos. A church spire was an axis mundi or cosmic pivot that assured communication with

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heaven; it was both the center and the symbol of the city. Before there were cities, the cosmic pivot had been represented at various times by trees, mountains, and ladders. In the Islamic tradition, the Kaaba of Mecca represents the supreme place on earth; its Christian equivalent is the hill of Golgotha, the site of the Crucifixion. With the introduction of churches and spires, the city itself came to symbolize the center of the world. Significantly, a center is premised on the existence of a uniform space around it. Inner spaces do exist in European cities. The moment the idea of uniformity of space is introduced, however, the concept of inner space in the Japanese sense is no longer tenable and gives way to the more universal and easily comprehended concept of a center. A center, unlike inner space, must be open and visible, like the hilltop church spire that rises toward heaven. The concept of center is not limited to the West and its Judeo-­Christian tradition but is also found in China and South Asia. The Japanese, too, worshiped mountains and regarded trees as sacred. When and why did the Japanese part ways with the rest of the world? First, their ancestors did not regard mountains as absolutes. They revered deep mountain recesses, but also accorded respect to nearby mountains and hills. They built towns and villages in valleys tucked between mountains or in basins ringed by mountains, perhaps out of a belief that those surrounding mountains were themselves guardian gods. The Japanese identified as the point of origin not the summit of a mountain but the depths of mountains. In the West, the idea of a center (that is, a mountaintop) was expressed in the form of cities, churches, and spires, whereas in Japan

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Approach to the town of Assisi, Italy.

mountains were expressed, in tumuli and gardens, in such a way as to suggest inner space, not a cosmic pivot. The argument may be made that the Japanese shunned thickly wooded mountains as sites for settlements because of the nature of the evergreen forest zone in which they lived, or that they chose to inhabit valleys because of easy access to water. I believe, however, that such utilitarian considerations served merely to reinforce the Japanese concept of space. A center locates a vertical, cosmic pivot that directly links heaven and earth. A culture with towers is premised on that idea. In the West, verticality enhances the majesty of churches. Standing in front of a Gothic cathedral, we are overwhelmed by its almost superhuman vertical scale. Stepping into its dim interior through low, heavy doors, we find ourselves in a soaring space; slanting rays of sunlight filtered through tall ­stained-­glass windows suggest infinite vertical extension. The drama is intended to be both physically and spiritually exhilarating. Renaissance churches, as a result in part of a Hellenistic influence, are more human in scale. Nonetheless, they too were characterized by centrality and verticality. Dancing angels painted in fresco under the central dome of a Renaissance church create, in the dimness of the light, an illusion of spiral upward movement. Some years ago a friend of mine drove me to the ancient city of Urbino in central Italy. As we were approaching the road leading to the heart of the city, my friend suddenly pointed toward a hilltop across the valley. I saw a church directly lit by the rays of the setting sun; its entrance arch was bathed in gold, creating a striking contrast with its white walls. For those who designed the church, even orientation seems to have played a part in its dramatic symbolism.

3.22 Scene of Yabukoji road beneath Mt. Atago, from Hiroshige Ando’s Hundred Views of Edo series.

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Inner space emphasizes horizontality and gains symbolic power by concealment. A Shinto shrine is therefore not a space to be entered but an object to be seen from without. The ridgepole of the shrine symbolizes a sacred tree, the open veranda circling the shrine, in all likelihood, the fence that once surrounded a sacred pillar. The shrine stands silently, wrapped in trees. If the location is deep in the mountains, mist can gather at times and obliterate even the sight of the shrine, drawing us into a world of ephemerality and flux. The absence of centrality and verticality in Japanese architecture is especially evident in the treatment of pagodas. The cultures of the world can be divided into those with towers and those without towers. Japan probably belongs to the towerless cultural sphere. Pagodas were introduced into Japan from China in the mid-­sixth century as symbols of Buddhist civilization. Umehara mentions a strange tower he saw in Xi’an (the ancient capital of Ch’ang-­an) on a visit to China some years ago. He comments that the sight of this red-­brick tower—built by the Buddhist priest and traveler Hsuan-­tsang (602–­664)—soaring into the blue heavens must have awed people of the time.5 As his account indicates, spaces in Chinese civilization more closely resemble by their centrality and verticality the spaces of western Asia and Europe than they do those of Japan, though Japan and China are both in East Asia. When the pagoda was introduced to Japan, it lost its upward impulsion and became just one element among many employed to strike a balance in the overall temple layout. At Horyuji Temple near Nara, for example, the pagoda, main hall, and covered galleries—as well as the surrounding trees—together make up a harmonious whole. As Umehara points out, the Horyuji pagoda resembles a standing human figure. The pagoda is nothing more than a vertical accent in an ensemble characterized by a Japanese sense of balance. Inner space is a mental touchstone for those who observe or produce it. In that sense, inner space can be called an invisible center—or, more precisely, a convenient alternative to the center, devised by a culture that denies absolutes such as centers. People are free to decide for themselves what constitutes such a “center”; there is no need to make it explicit. The multilayered structuring of space, one of the compositional patterns distinctive to Japan, gradually developed in this way. As an ultimate destination, innermost space often lacks a climactic quality. Instead, it is the process of reaching this goal that demands drama and ritual. The design of an approach is a matter of manipulating horizontal depth rather than height.

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The approaches to many temples and shrines turn and twist, with trees and slight undulations in the ground now revealing, now concealing the goal. This structuring of spatial experience takes into account the dimension of time. Even the torii gate at the entrance to a Shinto shrine is an element in this ritual of arrival. Nowadays most shrines and temples in big cities have sold their lands and lost every trace of their sando—the road that led to the main temple or shrine building—and the grove that stood in the back of the compound or precinct; only the buildings themselves remain, their inner recesses laid bare. Does inner space inevitably become empty when exposed? Is it scattered and made null? Japanese culture has no historical experience of ruins in the true sense of the word. Any temple or shrine building could be restored—at times with great ease—if destroyed, and was therefore not meant to be permanent. This reminds me of something I saw in the American city of St. Louis many years ago. The city had developed as a trading post on the west bank of the Mississippi River around the end of the eighteenth century. By the mid-­twentieth century, the heart of the city had become a slum inhabited mostly by minorities.When I was there, an extensive slum clearance project covering dozens of blocks was in progress as part of an ambitious city redevelopment plan. A project of this kind usually entails moving the church buildings, as well as the residents, out of the affected district, though Catholic churches, unlike Protestant churches, tend to opt to stay on. In that desolation of razed lots a single Catholic church remained standing, completely isolated but in full possession of a dignity that had nothing to do with the building’s size or design. I still remember vividly the robustness of that church, which gave an impression so different from that of a naked Japanese shrine. E n v e l o p m e nt v e r sus De mar catio n

The difference between inner space and center will be made still clearer by a comparison of concepts of place and formation of territory. The 1954 film Le grand jeu, shown in Japan many years ago, depicts life in an oasis set in the bleak, empty desert beneath a scorching sun. The oasis, with its meager greenery and scant water, its fleeting freedom and romance, is a contemporary desert paradise girded by walls and gates of sun-­baked brick and stone. As I suggested above, sanctification of place, determination of a ­center-­ as‑cosmic-­pivot, and establishment of a cosmos within chaos are the archetypal

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acts by which cities have been formed in much of the world. The deserts in which nomads wandered and the Aegean Sea where the ancient Greeks sailed were always filled with uncertainty and danger. To make the city a haven and a paradise, it was necessary not only to determine its center but also to demarcate clearly its surrounding territory. The ancient Greeks, when founding a city, performed a ceremony fixing the city limits; to them the city walls themselves had a sacred significance. In a civilization in which the formation of a city was premised on the existence of a center, the building of encompassing walls was a necessary act. It is also important to note that a rational spirit informed the patterns used to subdivide the territory within a city. We can clearly see the difference in pattern between the grid-­type city of Miletus, believed to have been built by Hippodamus in the fifth century bc, and a ­cluster-­type mountain city of medieval Europe. The former reveals itself by its very form to be a city-­state inhabited by free citizens, whereas the layout of the latter expresses the hierarchical order of an ecclesiastical, ­class-­oriented society. Nonetheless, each had a clearly fixed center and boundaries, and was established as a finite entity in a limitless expanse of space. Furthermore, the demarcated territory was well organized from an overall viewpoint. Thus the two types of city, despite differences in sociopolitical background and physical layout, have basically corresponding structures. By contrast, city planning in Japan was based on an entirely different approach. As I have said, the Japanese, in undertaking the building of a city, invariably recognized the finite nature of land. Thus many cities were founded in basins ringed by mountains, despite their geographical disadvantages for defensive purposes; for the same reason, it was exceedingly rare for a Japanese city to have man-­made

3.23 Typical street and block divisions in the “downtown” area of Tokyo.

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boundaries like those possessed by so many cities in other parts of the world. In Japan, instead of a fixed center, territorial integrity was based on something indeterminate, and enveloping or enfolding this basic “something” (oku) was the operational principle of territorial formation. In contrast to active demarcation, enveloping implies passivity as well as flexibility—that is, a capacity to adapt the envelope to the form of what is to be enveloped. Several years ago I had the opportunity to see an exhibition of traditional Japanese containers and wrapping materials held in New York under the auspices of the Japan Society. I was struck anew by the profusion of traditional wrapping materials and methods. There were containers of cloth, straw, paper, leaves, and other materials. I know of no other civilization that has developed a system of wrapping so beautifully and functionally adapted to the nature and shape of the objects to be wrapped. It seems to me that the principle of “inner ­space-­envelopment” in the formation of territory is a major Japanese concept, corresponding to that of “center­demarcation” in other cultures. It is true that a grid pattern was generally used in laying out flatland portions of cities during the Edo period. But the Japanese version lacked the internal consistency of a grid like that of Miletus, which maintained a single system of coordinates even though the city was divided into two parts by an arm of the sea. Japanese cities, on the contrary, were highly susceptible to the influence of topographical changes; as a result, geometrical conformity to a grid was not easily sustained. Fujimi-­cho, a district in Edo so named for its fine view of Mount Fuji, is a case in point. Because the district’s roads, forming a grid, are purposely oriented in relation to Mount Fuji, they are not aligned with the roads of the adjacent 3.24 Pattern of roads in an actual “uptown” neighborhood of Tokyo, shown according to their chronological development: heavy lines indicate roads enveloping the area (originally a single property); thinner black lines show main roads leading in from the boundaries, and dotted lines minor roads added later.

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districts. In other words, instead of a portion of the theoretically infinite expanse of the grid being encapsulated, a certain area with a common characteristic—in this case, a view of Mount Fuji—is identified as a territory by “wrapping it up” as a separate grid of several blocks. It goes without saying that in Edo, where street layout changed from place to place even in the flat downtown districts, the formation of territory by enfolding or enveloping it was still more pronounced in the high-­city Yamanote districts. There the roads running along hilltops and through valleys provided the basic lines of territorial delineation, clearly functioning to envelop the area following its natural contours. The narrow lanes leading from these outer “border” roads to the interior of the territory thus enclosed did not intersect. In this way disturbance of the integrity of the territory as a whole was minimized, and the “inner space” of such areas has remained intact to date. The winding roads of medieval European castle towns, though seemingly analogous, obey an essentially different set of structural imperatives. After all, whether laid out as grids or as networks, Japanese cities are intrinsically Japanese, and Western cities, Western. The contrasting concepts of “center-­demarcation” and “inner ­space-­envelopment” show the basic difference in the way space is organized in the two types of civilization. Using the idea of inner space as a clue, we have now finally come to the essence of the quality of “place” in two types of civilization. As shown by the stratagems employed in forming territories in space (be it the desert, wilderness, or ocean)—that is, cosmic pivot, center, enclosure, and demarcation—people belonging to ­center-­oriented civilizations believe that only what is made can exist absolutely, space itself being inherently formless and infinite. I have already pointed out that Japanese cities are like villages in that they incorporate rural institutions and landscapes. I believe that Japanese cities have grown out of the soil rather than being made by carving a measure of abstract space and architecture out of an infinite expanse of space, as is the case with cities in ­center-­oriented civilizations. For the Japanese, land is a living entity; that is the basis of their reverence for land, a feeling deeply rooted in folk beliefs. Surely inner space is not something constructed, like a center, but something bestowed by land itself. The Japanese do not hesitate to demolish houses, perhaps because a house is, after all, no more

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than a temporary abode in a transient world. But they are averse to the removal of wells or mounds. Once the concept of inner space was universalized, inner space (oku) in houses became nothing more than a specified, relative location within interior space. Surely this was because the Japanese saw in land the source of existence, and inner space was only its symbol or proxy. Thus towns and villages generate countless inner spaces. The city can be seen as an aggregate of innumerable public and private territories, each enveloping its own inner space. The Japanese city developed not as a community clustered around an absolute center but as numerous territories, each safeguarding its own inner space—be it public, semipublic, or private. Japanese cities maintained this form of organization at least until the early decades of the twentieth century. Today, Japanese cities are being subjected to unprecedented modernization and growing population density. The purpose of this essay is not to discuss the past development or predict the future of inner space in Japan. As the French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs has remarked, a city is a place of collective memory.6 My aim here is to point out how indispensable a knowledge of the cultural images rooted in the collective unconscious of the community is to an understanding of the nature of the city. An architect like myself, who plays a role, however limited, in the building of modern cities, is faced with an inescapable question. Various basic scenarios for cities—including scenarios for hell—can be easily imagined. The question is how those scenarios interact with reality. According to one scenario, ever-­increasing urban population density leads to the further loss of an already stunted nature and of the sense of place rooted in land, resulting in the dispersion of inner space (including the “exposed inner space” discussed above). Inner space becomes more and more compartmentalized, being relegated to one portion of an apartment, for instance, and thus ceases to participate in the kind of collective inner space formerly found in both low-­city and high-­city districts of Tokyo. In another scenario, efforts are made to revive urban inner spaces wherever possible, utilizing all available spatial concepts and techniques, old and new. What form such revived inner spaces should take is still uncertain. But I am convinced that once the goal is defined, we will discover the means to attain it. The history of Japanese cities teaches us that the qualities desired in space are to be achieved through not just expansion, but also the creation of depth.

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Th e K a z e - n ­ o - ­Ok a Crem atorium

The Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium sits on a hilly site on the outskirts of Nakatsu, a small city of 70,000 people in southern Japan. The spacious, naturally scenic site was selected as an appropriately tranquil environment for cremation and funeral ceremonies in a location removed from the everyday activities of the town. The larger grounds incorporate an existing Buddhist cemetery, a group of recently unearthed ­fourth- to ­sixth-­century burial mounds, and a newly landscaped strolling park given the evocative name “Kaze-­no-­Oka,” which means “Hill of the Winds.” To respect and enhance the scenic character of this environment, I felt from the beginning that the design of the crematorium buildings must somehow blend with this timeless landscape rather than standing apart. I imagined the building volumes, particularly when viewed from the park to the south, seen as emerging from the earth in a partially buried state. The crematorium program called for three buildings: the crematorium proper, where ceremonies directly connected with the cremation would be conducted; the waiting area, where mourners would pass time between ceremonies; and the funeral hall, where vigils and funeral services would be held. My design intention was to make the spaces used for ceremonial purposes appropriately still and solemn in character, while allowing the spaces linking those rooms to provide a natural flow and a sense of repose between consecutive activities. Such concerns helped to determine the way that natural light is admitted, the proportions of rooms, and the choice of materials throughout. A crematorium is not merely a facility for processing the remains of the dead; it also has a very public function in providing a place for the bereaved to take leave of their loved ones, to mourn, and to reflect. From the beginning of the design

3.25 Aerial view of Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium and park, with recently discovered burial mounds (bottom left).

process, we focused on the experience of relatives and friends, asking what sort of space they would require for this final parting from the deceased, what sort of memory they might wish to have of this primary experience. In contemplating answers to these questions, we realized that such a momentous life event is ideally not something that happens in a moment but, rather, an experience that unfolds gradually over time. By paying particular attention to the most elemental aspects of architecture—space, light, scale, proportion, texture—we might manipulate the sense of time passing according to the experience and feeling of each visitor. A flowing arrangement of spaces could be designed to make visitors indirectly aware, at each stage in the sequence, of the place to which they were to move next—when they were ready—using strategies such as bending paths, screened views, and unseen sources of natural light.

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Naturally our building, though gentle in its outward appearance, would take on a certain psychological dimension as visitors passed through a sequence of ceremonial spaces prescribed by tradition: entrance hall, oratory, crematorium, waiting space, and enshrinement room. It seemed to me that the careful arrangement of these spaces could in itself suggest a kind of inner depth of the kind that I had analyzed several years earlier in “The Japanese City and Inner Space.” That essay explained, through a number of examples, the Japanese word­concept oku (inner depth or inner space), which I consider one of the distinguishing characteristics of Japanese urban space. I defined oku as a kind of unseen center, one that is inaccessible or difficult to perceive, as opposed to an occupiable center or ­center-­as‑destination. To put it another way, oku is an arrangement of space to suggest depth; it exists only as an effect of such an arrangement. The aim is to create a symbolic space perceived as remote. This depth, however, is not governed by absolute distance in space as it might be, for example, in the monumental urban designs of Baroque Europe. The idea of oku is, rather, to create perceptual remoteness within a limited space; the problem of physical distance is overcome by the provision of multiple layers of actual or implied thresholds. Topography, trees, screens, and other framing devices can all be used to endow urban space with oku, as can the treatment of natural light. In his famous essay In Praise of Shadows, Jun’ichiro Tanizaki speaks of such depth being expressed in the suggestive quality of natural light, whether inside or outside.1 If such points are taken into consideration, then it should be possible to arrange spaces not only in cities and in landscapes but also in contemporary architecture, within individual buildings, so that they too possess a kind of inner depth. The impulse to create a sense of oku at the Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium may have been an instinctive response on my part to the idea that the cremation ceremony requires a kind of psychological journey, in which neither the destination nor the experiences along the way can be made clear from the beginning. Visitors approach the crematorium along a gently curving road that ascends the hill. Passing by the cemetery, they arrive at a forecourt, framed by a long horizontal wall of brick and a covered ­porte-­cochère, which offers mourners a sheltered space to pause before entering the crematorium building. The metal screen of the ­porte-­cochère creates a sense of visual depth between it and the front garden.

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1 – Forecourt 2 – Entry porch 3 – Oratory 4 – Crematory 5 – Waiting space 6 – Enshrinement room 7 – Courtyard 8 – Park

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After traversing the gently ramped walkway along the side of the front garden, visitors arrive at an external porch marking the entrance to the crematorium building; they pass through an antechamber and enter the oratory, where they will spend some final ceremonial moments with the body in its coffin. Refracted light is drawn through a lattice of metal bars, making the coffin appear to float in a twilit space. After that ceremony, mourners move on, gathering in a space in front of the incinerator doors for a final farewell. The space before the incinerators opens onto an internal courtyard filled with a shallow pool. Natural light reflecting off the water sparkles across the ceiling, providing a moment of unexpected animation and beauty. Mourners who have just paid their last respects to the deceased sense the sky, the movement of clouds, and the play of light, thereby coming back into contact with the outside world. The sequence then leads them along a sloping corridor to the waiting area, to pass time while the body is cremated. In the waiting area, mourners are released for one or two hours from the solemnity of ceremony. To reflect this break in mood, we introduced wood and other organic materials to this space, in contrast to the monochromatic grey palette of concrete, slate, granite, steel, and plaster used in ceremonial spaces. We also designed this space to have a multifarious character, with areas both for group conversation and for private reflection. The waiting area is the only space that looks out to the surrounding landscape, with a view to distant mountains framed by the topography and trees of Kaze-­no-­Oka. Once the cremation is completed, mourners are then led to an enshrinement room where the bones and ashes of the deceased are returned from the incinerator on a trolley and placed in the center of the room. As in the oratories, refracted light pours into this space though horizontal louvers. After a ritual purification ceremony, mourners then depart, using a different door to pass through the entrance porch and ascend the gallery walk to the forecourt. In many cases, the cremation ceremony is followed by a memorial service in the funeral hall. This sequence involves a second, shorter loop, beginning again from the forecourt and passing to the opposite side of the brick wall first seen from the entrance. Mourners traverse a gallery walk open to a view of Kaze-­no­Oka until they reach the ­brick-­clad funeral hall, which appears as an octagonal volume emerging from the earth at a slight tilt. Just inside the entrance, four circular skylights produce a sense of verticality in contrast with the horizontality

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of the preceding spaces. Passing between rows of chairs, visitors approach the altar and make an offering of incense to the deceased. To the left, light reflects off a shallow pool of water, entering the hall through a low horizontal window. As mourners depart, they return to the open gallery where the ceremony comes to a close. Since the crematorium’s completion in 1996, many people even from outside the city have visited the place, and as I understand, many of them have expressed a wish to be cremated there if possible. Perhaps this is one of the most unexpected compliments I have ever received as an architect.

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Lobby for waiting space.

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Enshrinement room.

3.34 Mourners depart carrying white urns.

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3.36 Kaze-­no-­Oka park, with crematorium seen emerging from the grassy hill. The abstract, nearly windowless volumes of funeral hall, waiting area, and crematorium are distinguished by their surfacing in brick, weathering steel, and concrete—materials selected for their durability when partially buried in the landscape, metaphorically suggesting the return of the dead to the earth.

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T h e L e Co r b u si e r Syndrom e: On t he Dev elo pment of Moder n Ar chitectur e in Japan

Le Corbusier passed away in 1965, the very year when I began my own architectural practice; yet over the subsequent decades, I have always been mindful of the things he created and said. In this, I am not alone—particularly not in Japan. The sustained interest in Le Corbusier, ever since he emerged as a hero of the architectural world early in the twentieth century, is evident in the words and deeds of Japanese architects and critics of many different generations, including my own. What can explain such a constant fascination for the designs and writings of a single architect in a country where he built but one late work? Le Corbusier’s influence in countries other than France and its European neighbors is for the most part easily explained. His impact on modern Brazilian architecture and on the architectural culture of post-­Independence India are easily fathomed; both stem from his intensive involvement in numerous projects and professional collaborations in those countries. His effect in those countries can be likened to ripples caused by a stone thrown into a pond: a single strong impact followed by waves that diminish with time and distance. His influence on Japan, however, is of a different nature and longer duration—as if many stones had been thrown, one after another, into a pond. Over time, the different systems of ripples have interfered with one another, creating a complex pattern. I have chosen to call this phenomenon, which is unique to Japan, the “Le Corbusier Syndrome.” I believe that an analysis of this syndrome may help to clarify the nature of the process of development of modern architecture in Japan. In undertaking this analysis, I will introduce things I myself have seen and heard. The history of this syndrome can be divided into roughly three periods. The first period lasted from the end of the 1920s through the 1930s, in the era before

World War II. The 1920s in particular were a time when young architects, though still few in number, began to go to Europe to visit Le Corbusier’s works or to apprentice themselves to him. In Japan, the magazines in which his works and writings were published increased interest in his architecture and ideas. This was a period in which the Japanese architectural world began to discover itself, and young architects began to discuss the future of modern architecture. Le Corbusier came to be regarded as a hero and became the focus of attention of many architects. White, unadorned boxes came into vogue, and the famous Five Points of Le Corbusier’s Vers une architecture—including pilotis, the roof garden, and the free plan—entered the Japanese architectural vocabulary. This image he projected in the first period as a young hero was transformed in the second period—namely the postwar years of the 1950s and 1960s—into the image of Le Corbusier as a master of ­twentieth-­century architecture. His style changed during this time as well. It was during these years that I myself felt his influence most directly, both from the architect himself and from his close disciples, and Le Corbusier evolved into a figure enveloped in myth. He had been active in the field of urbanism as early as the 1930s, but it was not until the second period that his influence became apparent in this genre in Japan. The final, third period was initiated by his death in 1965 and continues to this day. After his death, Le Corbusier became the subject of theoretical analyses, much like Palladio. His death coincided with major developments in postwar architecture. The May Revolution in Paris touched off worldwide student unrest in 1968, and the Vietnam War was already casting a shadow on the United States. The nature of architecture was increasingly questioned. It was in that shifting political and philosophical context that new ways of looking at the architecture of Le Corbusier were sought, and the search still continues. Before discussing the way Le Corbusier was viewed in these three stages, I would like to consider briefly the way in which foreign architecture, especially European architecture, has been introduced into Japan in modern times. Western architecture took root in Japan in two ways. The primary way was through foreign architects who came to Japan after the Meiji Restoration and designed buildings in orthodox Western styles. These styles were regarded in Japan as an integral part of a technology that needed to be mastered in order to create architecture. The adoption of styles therefore implied advancement, and Western architecture came to symbolize progress and authority. By the 1870s, however, a different

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style of modern architecture had also developed. The so‑called ­pseudo-­Western style ( giyou‑fu) architecture was a mixture of Western and Japanese elements; examples included the ­Mitsui-­Gumi Head Office, the Dai-­Ichi National Bank, and the Tsukiji Hotel, all designed by the master carpenter Kisuke Shimizu. These works achieved an architectural détente, one in which neither Western nor Japanese tradition was rejected. The ­pseudo-­Western style is of more than passing interest because something very much like it cropped up years later. There is a close resemblance between the Dai-­Ichi National Bank and the Government Building that was constructed in Manchuria to symbolize the authority of the ­Japanese­controlled state about sixty years later, in the 1930s, at a time when the first debates over “tradition” occurred in the Japanese architectural world. The Manchurian Government Building was in the so‑called Imperial Crown style, which, simply put, meant capping a boxlike ­Western-­style building with a ­Japanese-­style pitched roof. The National Diet Building, which was also completed in the 1930s, is Greek Revival in style, but the sensibility behind it is ­pseudo-­Western. That such a sensibility would be allowed to shape a building housing the legislative branch of the Japanese government at a time of heightened nationalism suggests that architecture had long been drained of any political or ideological content. Since the Meiji period, style had meant technology, and technology had meant progress. That was also the attitude taken by Japanese architects toward the styles preceding the advent of International Style modernism, such as Jugendstil and Secessionist architecture. There is another factor that must be mentioned with respect to the architectural climate in Japan at the time modernism was introduced. In 1835, Karl Friedrich

4.1 The National Diet Building ( Japan’s Parliament), Tokyo, 1936.

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Schinkel designed a villa for Prince Wilhelm in a suburb of Potsdam. What made this building revolutionary was the fact that it departed from the Baroque form of arrangement, in which architecture in the Palladian style dominated place and nature, and established a one-­to‑one relationship between architecture and the nature around it. That is, architecture and nature were made interdependent. Such free spatial forms are one of the reasons Schinkel is seen as an architect who anticipated modernism, but villas with such spatial forms had already been perfected in Japan in the seventeenth century, as witnessed in the Katsura Detached Palace. Such similarities of spatial form and a shared interest in transparent membranes, which in truth were the result of historical accident, facilitated the synthesis of Japanese culture with modernism, even though by that time Japanese architects had mastered historicist Western architecture. In Europe, modernism represented a rejection of historicism and thus had an underlying political character, but when it was introduced into Japan, modernism was almost entirely neutral in its political content. There was no Japanese equivalent of the conflict in France between academicism, represented by the École des Beaux-­Arts, and modernism. Even the Imperial Crown style, developed to symbolize the state, had clearly detectable traces of Western architecture. During this time in Germany, the Nazis sought to eliminate any trace of modernism, which they saw as symbolic of political radicalism, but such an attitude did not exist in Japan. What is interesting is that in this first period, many excellent works of modernist architecture were created in Japan that stand comparison with those in Europe. They include Antonin Raymond’s own house, houses by Sutemi Horiguchi such as Shienso and the later Wakasa Residence, and the Ube Civic Center

4.2 Japan Pavilion for the 1937 Paris International Exposition, by Junzo Sakakura.

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by Togo Murano. In assimilating Western culture, young Japanese architects had gradually begun to acquire the ability to express themselves freely and individually, and that probably accounts for the diversity and excellence of works such as those by Horiguchi and Murano. The Japan Pavilion for the 1937 Paris Exposition, designed by Junzo Sakakura, who had served as an apprentice at the atelier of Le Corbusier from 1930 onward, must be seen in that context. There is a fascinating similarity of spirit in Sakakura’s design for the Japan Pavilion and in several later works by Le Corbusier, particularly the Carpenter Center at Harvard. In both cases, a rampway forcefully penetrates a gridded plan. According to Sakakura, Le Corbusier let him use the Paris atelier to design the Japan Pavilion. It is quite probable that during that time, he received advice or was otherwise influenced by Le Corbusier. Over the years, from the Villa Savoye through the Japan Pavilion to the Carpenter Center, master and disciple may have communicated, on both a conscious and a subconscious level, on many occasions. Sakakura spent five years as an apprentice, and toward the end Le Corbusier thought so much of him that he entrusted Sakakura with a project all to himself. Sakakura absorbed Le Corbusier’s teachings until they became, one might say, a part of his physical regimen and the motivating force for his own design. Kunio Maekawa, whom I will discuss later, was of the same generation; he preceded Sakakura at Le Corbusier’s atelier, having left Japan for Paris immediately after graduating from Tokyo University in 1928. That Sakakura, Maekawa, and many others of the 1920s generation (including their classmate Yoshiro Taniguchi) regarded Le Corbusier as their leader was of enormous importance in setting the direction for the subsequent development of modern architecture in Japan. It was very much like the situation in Brazil in 1930, when Lucio Costa—28 at the time—invited Le Corbusier to the country and, together with Oscar Niemeyer, laid the foundation for modern architecture and urbanism in that country. It all testifies to Le Corbusier’s status as a young hero among architects of that generation throughout the world. My introduction to modern architecture took place in Tokyo shortly after the above events, when as a child I had the opportunity to visit the house Kameki Tsuchiura designed for himself and the Sasaki House designed by Yoshiro Taniguchi. I have a clear recollection of their spaces even today. Shigeo Sasaki was a relative, and my mother visited his new house on the opening day. The fact that the name plate of the architect, Taniguchi, was attached to the wall beside the entrance made a strong impression on her. It is highly unusual even today

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to find such a display on a residence, and this detail suggests the assertive spirit of young architects at the time. That, too, may have been a sign of Le Corbusier’s influence. I will now consider briefly the relationship between Le Corbusier and the Japanese architectural world from the end of World War II to the 1960s. I was then starting out as an architect, and many of the architects and city planners with whom I became acquainted, both in Japan and abroad, were on familiar terms with Le Corbusier. Consequently, the views expressed here tend to be more personal in nature. There are two noteworthy aspects to the relationship between Le Corbusier and Japan in this period. First, a debate over “tradition” broke out in the Japanese architectural world once more after the war; at issue was the essential nature of Japanese tradition. Was Japanese tradition based on prehistoric Yayoi culture or on ancient Jomon culture? The tradition debate arose out of the need to assert a Japanese identity in the face of the ­large-­scale assimilation of foreign culture—indeed, the Japanese throughout their history have never simply adopted foreign things, but have adapted them in distinctively Japanese ways. This tradition debate differed from the 1930s debate in that it did not lead directly to the development of a style such as the Imperial Crown style; instead, it inspired architects to go their own individual ways, and that may still be one of the defining characteristics of contemporary architecture in Japan. Kenzo Tange was one of the architects actively engaged in the tradition debate, but so were architects such as Maekawa and Takamasa Yoshizaka, who had long been interested in Le Corbusier. Le Corbusier himself showed plastic, primitivist tendencies at this time, and the three Japanese architects mentioned above developed their own concrete forms. Few architects have understood and loved European culture as much as Kunio Maekawa. If Sakakura tried to absorb the master’s teachings through physical mastery of them, then Maekawa attempted to understand them through his own spirit. It was empathy for Le Corbusier that led Maekawa to question the nature of the architectural profession and the nature of technology, and to develop his own sense of architectural morality. Inevitably, that questioning spirit led at times to mixed feelings on his part about European culture and Le Corbusier’s architecture. I became acquainted with Maekawa in the late 1950s, and two episodes from that period are indicative of his state of mind. Le Corbusier had designed the chapel at Ronchamp around 1952. Several years later, I was with Maekawa when he suddenly said, in exasperation, “I don’t

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understand the architecture of Ronchamp. I would like to ask him once what the idea is behind the design.” Shortly thereafter, Maekawa participated in the 1962 limited competition for Tokyo Cathedral, and his early sketches show numerous ­Ronchamp-­like features on the roof and the walls. Though he could not understand the chapel and rebelled against it, he was still drawn to its forms. Such paradoxes no doubt occur all the time in other genres of art. Artistic influence is like the shadow of a cloud: a cloud can overtake one unawares, until one is directly under it, and then in the next moment it moves on. Artistic influence, like the shadow of a cloud, is elusive and difficult for someone under it to discern. The other episode concerns Maekawa’s last meeting with Le Corbusier, which took place in the 1960s. “There was one thing I could not understand,” Maekawa told me on his return to Japan. “He never had a child, but for many years he had a dog that he loved. The dog had died not long before I visited him, and perhaps to remember it by, he had the dog’s hide laid on the floor. I could never do something like that.” Maekawa himself was childless and loved a pet dog, which I understand was buried in a grave when it died. As these two episodes show, Maekawa tried to love and to understand Europe and Le Corbusier. That effort at times was unsuccessful, and in his perplexity he began to question both himself and Japan. He reminds me of the philosopher Arimasa Mori, who studied Descartes’s philosophy throughout his life until his death in Paris. Perhaps it is in the nature of great masters to cast a spell on those who follow them. It is easy to point out the formal influence of Le Corbusier on Japanese architecture at the time—for example, in the parallels between the museum in Ahmedabad and Tange’s first Sogetsu Center, or between the Assembly Building at Chandigarh and Maekawa’s Tokyo Metropolitan Festival Hall—but it is also necessary to examine emotions such as those to which Maekawa was subject if we are to understand the wider influence of Le Corbusier’s personality and architecture. My own exposure to the Swiss master, his works, and his ideas dates from his late years. Josep Lluis Sert, who was the Dean of the Graduate School of Design when I was studying at Harvard in the 1950s, was a direct disciple of Le Corbusier, and other Europeans with whom I became acquainted through the university had known Le Corbusier since the early days of CIAM. When I received a Graham Foundation Fellowship in 1958 and traveled for two years in Asia and Europe, one of the aims of my travels was to see the works of Le Corbusier, and so naturally I made a point of visiting Ahmedabad and Chandigarh. Le Corbusier happened to

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be in Chandigarh at the time of my visit, and I had an opportunity to meet him in his atelier there. Inside the high-­ceilinged but dimly lit atelier, he was absorbed in designing a relief for a dam to be constructed north of Chandigarh. After conversing with him, I took the liberty of showing him a drawing of Toyoda Auditorium at Nagoya University, a project which I was then designing and which was to be my first built work. He kindly offered criticism of the design, and then, referring to a shear wall that joined column to column—an antiseismic feature widely used at the time in Japan—he said, “This is not good—you should free the columns.” Whatever the aptness of his remark, the experience was unforgettable for a young architect. Le Corbusier exerted influence on Japan not only through his architectural work but also, from the 1950s onward, through his urbanism; his utopian ideas for cities made a particular impact in Japan. The image of the future he developed through a series of projects beginning with the City for Three Million People set in Paris and culminating in the City Plan for Algiers was neither a socialist utopia of the kind Robert Owen or Charles Fourier envisioned nor a Garden City of the type imagined by Ebenezer Howard. Simply stated, it was a ­techno-­utopia—an urban image based on a space of unlimited extension suggested by modernist ideas. In the late 1950s, this ­techno-­utopia provided a springboard for Japanese architects working in an environment unhampered by ideology or academicism, and seeking a new vision. Kenzo Tange’s Tokyo Plan 1960—an extension of his earlier Boston Harbor project at MIT—can also be seen as a postwar version of Le Corbusier’s Algiers project. Corbusier’s ­techno-­utopia also had a strong influence on the 1960 Metabolist movement. It is seen, for example, in the theory of replacement developed by Kiyonori Kikutake. However, there was a sharp distinction between Le Corbusier’s formal ideas and the ideas of the Metabolists, who envisioned a city that was dynamic rather than static. The idea of group form that I proposed together with Masato Otaka, the capsules of Kisho Kurokawa, and the man-­made deck of Otaka were all very different in character from Le Corbusier’s concepts. Kurokawa’s Agrarian City proposal had a framework reminiscent of fortified Japanese villages of the medieval period, and Kikutake’s Ocean City is a particularly Asian vision of the world. Transplanted to Japan, Le Corbusier’s ­techno-­utopia thus took a very different form; many of these ideas, however, came to an end with the Osaka Exposition of 1970, as architecture entered a period of intellectual change throughout the world.

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When I try to summarize Le Corbusier’s influence on Japan in the 1960s, the house of a certain architect comes to mind. It is the Tower House, which Takamitsu Azuma designed for himself in 1967. This ­exposed-­concrete detached house, constructed on a tiny triangular plot near the center of Tokyo, is a realization of nearly all the principles of modern architecture espoused by Le Corbusier. It sits raised above the ground on pilotis; it features a continuous six-­story space without a single intervening door and terminates in a roof garden; and the coarse texture of the concrete shows an unmistakable Corbusian sensibility. The small house is an encapsulation of thirty years of work by Le Corbusier. It is significant not simply for its physical qualities. As Charles Jencks has pointed out, one senses in Le Corbusier, as in the towering Renaissance genius Leonardo da Vinci, the terrible isolation of a human being who has no recourse to religion. Egoism enables the great artist to bear this deep isolation; he is subject to both self-­flagellation and self-­aggrandizement. Apollo and Medusa both come to be a part of his character, and his heroism is ultimately tinged with pathos.1 The Tower House, which stands on twenty square meters of land, is the most direct expression of Azuma’s view of the city, which considers that places to live in must be wrested from the megacity called Tokyo. I also see in this view something of the ­pathos-­tinged heroism of Le Corbusier. It is perhaps not a coincidence that Azuma, as a young man, worked in the atelier of Junzo Sakakura. The world’s view of Le Corbusier began to change in the years after his death in 1965. The respect, love, jealousy, resistance, prejudice, and myth that surrounded him as hero and master gradually subsided, and increasingly attempts were made to reconsider the modernism he represented through an objective analysis and interpretation of his works. In Japan, many young architects and researchers

4.3 Tower House, Tokyo, 1967, by Takamitsu Azuma.

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undertook studies of his works, and the findings of such studies were reflected in their own. Around this time, diverse treatises concerning Le Corbusier were also being published in the United States, primarily through the Institute of Architecture and Urban Studies headed by Peter Eisenman. It should not be forgotten, however, that a number of pioneers—such as Colin Rowe, the Cornell University architectural historian who wrote “The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa,” and the architect Robert Venturi, who developed a formal analysis of the Villa Savoye in his Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture—had laid the groundwork for widespread critical reconsideration.2 Before discussing Japanese activities concerning Le Corbusier in what I call the third period, I would like to touch on the work of another architect, Kazuo Shinohara. We generally regard Shinohara as a modernist. He has expressed admiration for the early modernism of the 1920s, but his faith in abstract figures was not thought to be related directly to the spirit of Le Corbusier. In his text on the House on a Crooked Road in Uehara, however, Shinohara took note of Deleuze’s idea of a literary machine—that is, a machine producing meaning—and, joining that to the concept of the machine at the start of the twentieth century, he declared the existence of houses that are machines for producing meaning. Le Corbusier had once stated that houses are “machines for living,” but Shinohara redefined houses as “machines that produce diverse meanings surrounding the act of dwelling.” How, then, are such meanings produced? According to Shinohara, the direct attachment of heterogeneous objects is similar in effect to a story without a plot, and when people freely traverse a spatial device created from such a union, meanings that the architect had not anticipated appear. The Tokyo Institute of Technology’s Centennial Hall epitomizes that idea; when one looks at this

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building, the chapel at Ronchamp somehow comes to mind. Earlier I described artistic influence as a relationship akin to the shadow cast by a cloud upon an unsuspecting person below. As an architect, I am more interested in such ambiguous relationships than in the perfectly explained theories of Le Corbusier. In the 1970s, members of Japan’s younger generation showed new interest in Le Corbusier, focused on the abundance of rhetorical meanings in his spatial and formal vocabulary. As Yuzuru Tominaga points out, each architect played his own game, using the vocabulary provided by Le Corbusier: pilotis, inclined floors, concavity and convexity, centrifugality and centripetality, reality and fiction, transparency and translucency. Tominaga, who has himself published an excellent book on Le Corbusier’s architecture, offers an interesting case study via his own work, the House in Ueda. There, he first tries to establish the autonomy of architecture, independent of function or building type. As Le Corbusier had advocated in his proposed basic principles of modern architecture, Tominaga first creates a neutral frame and a pure rectangular box-­shaped outer shell, then separates the frame from the outer membrane. He permits aspects of the program that are reflected on the membrane to deviate from the preestablished frame and surface. His attitude is quite different from that of architects of the previous generation, who regarded modernism as engaged in a struggle with old traditions. He tolerates urban reality as a given—a second form of nature. Toyo Ito, who belongs to the same generation, sees today’s urban reality as a positive thing and calls it the “electronic city.” The stance of this generation of architects toward Le Corbusier makes it clear that they regard him not as an admirable hero or master of the past but as someone worth studying in order to solve real problems they confront today. To put it another way: they want to know what contemporary significance they can

4.4 Keio University Graduate Research Center, ­Shonan-­Fujisawa campus, 1994.

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elicit from a formal analysis of Le Corbusier’s early works (especially the generic Domino House), and to apply that to the reality they themselves face. Ken’ichi Echigoshima is another ­architect-­critic who has actively studied Le Corbusier. He has selected from among the many works that have been built in Japan in recent years a number of buildings that he sees as analyzable by means of Le Corbusier’s architectural theory. One of them happens to be the Graduate School on the Fujisawa campus of Keio University that I designed several years ago. That building is egg-­shaped in plan and shielded by louvers of perforated aluminum on the second and third floors. Echigoshima calls it “an original work, much as if the early Le Corbusier had looked ahead to the later Carpenter Center.”3 I can honestly say that I was not at all consciously thinking of Le Corbusier when I designed the school, but now that it has been pointed out to me, his architecture must have been on my mind on a subconscious level, like the shadow of a cloud. Why has Le Corbusier influenced us on so many levels in this way? I would like to close this essay with a brief consideration of this question, from the point of view of both the man who has exerted the influence and those who have been under that influence. First, no architect did as much as Le Corbusier to create the new spatial rhetoric that the times demanded and to reveal a new, fertile direction for architecture. That is, Le Corbusier provided a menu so variegated that anyone who is interested can develop his or her own game from it. Why did Le Corbusier exert a much greater and more enduring influence than other pioneering architects? One answer is that the twentieth century happened to be an era for developing new forms of space. Cities and architecture are nothing but forms that endow space with order. Modern architectural movements, beginning

4.5 Charles-­Édouard Jeanneret, “Abbé Grégoire”— Étude pour la nature morte du Pavillon de l’Esprit Nouveau, 1925. Crayon on paper, 94 3 112 cm. Dessin FLC 2364, Fondation Le Corbusier. © 2008 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris.

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with De Stijl, destroyed the old concepts of rooms in architecture and of topos in cities, then constructed them anew. Naturally, the twentieth century’s new structural systems, new construction methods, and new materials made possible large ­column-­free or complex spaces; but more importantly, intangibles such as human perceptions, ambitions, and emotions that have existed continuously since ancient times, lying concealed in architectural space, were unleashed and given renewed expression by means of diverse architectural forms. Naturally, the artistic movements at the beginning of the century contributed to this achievement, but Le Corbusier more than anyone else taught us the existence of rich, polysemous, and attractive spaces, and the secret of creating such spaces. Echigoshima describes Le Corbusier’s objective in the early period as the creation of “a layered, transparent volume.”4 In his later years, Le Corbusier was interested in exploring a space that he himself described as difficult to express: l’espace indicible (ineffable space). If, by that, he meant an archetypal space that has existed since ancient times, the course of his lifelong adventure can be said to have had historic scope. That is what made his work so rich. Why, then, did the Japanese architectural world continue to respond to this architect to an almost excessive degree? I have explained what I believe is the answer, and will not repeat myself here except to state that a combination of various historical and accidental factors made Japan eminently receptive. In assimilating a new culture from overseas, the Japanese have always transformed it into something distinctively their own, as witnessed in the ­pseudo-­Western style of the Meiji period. The same attitude was taken, at times on a subconscious level, with respect to modernism, particularly that of Le Corbusier. The architects who have been mentioned here encountered Le Corbusier at different times and with different sensibilities, and each diverged from the path Le Corbusier himself had taken for a different reason. That panorama, it seems to me, is indicative of the process of development of modern architecture in Japan since the 1920s.

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Mak i n g A r c h i t e c ture in J a pa n

The Tokyo of my childhood in the 1930s was still a city of abundant greenery and detached, mostly wooden, houses. At times, new construction would begin in the neighborhood. In those days, workmen did not mind the intrusion of curious children. We watched as carpenters sawed and planed wood. Using hammer and chisel, they shaped mortises. The sounds of men at work echoed pleasantly in the otherwise quiet residential district. The air was filled with the fragrance of fresh wood shavings. The carpenters wielded their tools with steady hands, and from time to time examined their own handiwork intently. I remember these things quite vividly even now. My first encounter with craftsmen thus took place at a time when I had as yet no idea that I would become an architect. More than seventy years have passed since then. I still live in the same district, but the houses today are mostly prefabricated or built of reinforced concrete. Few are built by carpenters. These days the construction company seals off a site with a temporary enclosure once work is to begin, and the occasional noise of construction provides those outside with little hint of what is transpiring within. Eventually, the enclosure is removed, and the roughly completed building is unveiled. In the past, we were able to observe not only the work of carpenters but performances put on by craftsmen such as glassworkers and textile dyers. Today we have few such opportunities. Nevertheless, human beings must still confront materials or other human beings at certain points in the production process, even though wood and shoji have been replaced by metal and glass, and individual activity has given way to group activity. Those confrontations are where architectural culture, in the sense that Dana Buntrock describes in her book Japanese Architecture as a Collaborative Process—that is, as an expression of building construction—is made manifest.1 That culture

lives on. If, for example, the installation of a complex element on a building site proves difficult, people of different trades will meet to discuss the problem with the architect. The tradesmen on such occasions have the same intent faces as the carpenters of my childhood. If a small metal piece needs to be affixed just so to the structure, the work is done with hands as steady as those of the craftsmen I watched long ago. Today, less and less use is made of individual craftsmanship in the building production process. In what ways, then, does the spirit of craftsmanship live on in contemporary construction? I believe it lives on in the pride people take in the work they do and the things they create, no matter how small. Today, more than a decade after the bursting of Japan’s economic “bubble,” unit construction cost has fallen from two-­thirds to one-­half of what it was at its peak, as a result of fierce price competition among construction companies. Yet the quality of building has not fallen to the same extent. Indeed, there is little perceptible change in quality. Construction companies have managed to do this in part by trimming profits, which were indeed extremely high in the bubble era, but they would seem to have only so much leeway. Western societies that have markedly more transparent price structures find it difficult to understand this phenomenon. Quality control is being maintained in Japan in many cases through the sacrifices of subcontractors and sub-­subcontractors. The situation may be bleak, but people are refusing to use that as an excuse for lower quality. It is inspiring to me to see these people continue to work with such dedication. People in Japan still take pride in their work, whatever the pay. That is, they feel a need not only to achieve explicitly stated objectives but to meet unspoken expectations. After receiving my undergraduate degree in 1952, I was briefly a member of Kenzo Tange’s research group at Tokyo University. Tange, then a professor, never gave explicit orders. We did our best, acting as often as not on what we understood to be his unspoken messages to us. This mentality has been characteristic not only of the ­master-­disciple relationship but of relationships in the fields of construction and design in keiretsu2 organizations. Takenaka Corporation, one of the biggest construction companies in Japan, has a proud tradition of high quality. Until recently, Takenaka had a special system of inspection for buildings of particular importance. The inspection, which took place just before the completion of construction, was carried out by a number of people nearing retirement with long experience at Takenaka in managing site offices. If the quality of the inspected building was not up to their expectations, the inspectors themselves then undertook improvements on

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their own initiative. For the Takenaka personnel working at the site, the inspection was a major event which could impact on their future careers. This was a system based on pride that could have been possible only in institutions practicing lifetime employment. I believe the culture of building construction has always had two aspects— aesthetics and engineering. Devising appropriate ways to express the beauty and richness of materials has been a major aesthetic concern in Japanese architecture throughout history. It is a major concern in the work of Yoshio Taniguchi, for example. The beauty that is sought is more a matter of sensibility than of intellectually understood concepts such as symmetry and the golden section. Many contemporary Japanese architects are extraordinarily insistent that builders achieve certain surface effects in concrete. A sensibility honed by a long history of love for and preoccupation with the texture of wood probably accounts for that insistence. Demand that building elements be thinner and more transparent is yet another way in which a special sensitivity to materials is expressed. It is also an impetus to devise the means to achieve that condition. Japanese architecture has always been characterized by the confluence and simultaneous expression of beauty and technology. The modernization of Japan that began around 1850 was in fact a process of Westernization. However, Japan was never subjugated by a colonial power. Japan thus differed from other Asian countries in that it could be highly selective in its process of Westernization. It looked to France for art and cuisine, Germany for medicine and technology, and England for shipbuilding and shipping. In fields such as law and literature, where choosing from alternative models was difficult, Japan adopted separate, parallel fields of specialization—for example, English literature and French literature or English law and German law. Architectural education in Japan was first established in an institution that later became Tokyo University. The Department of Architecture then closely resembled that of a German technical university and belonged to the Faculty of Engineering. Josiah Conder, the first professor on the faculty, was English. It is interesting to note that Kingo Tatsuno, one of the first four students Conder taught and the first student sent overseas for further education, went on Conder’s recommendation not only to an architectural firm but also to Thomas Cubitt, a leading builder in England at the time. Even today, only a minority of those who graduate from ­engineering­oriented departments of architecture go to work for so‑called atelier architects

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(architects whose offices more closely resemble artists’ ateliers than the offices of conventional professionals). In the early 1950s, when I received my undergraduate degree, the overwhelming majority of graduates found employment with large construction companies. The rest became administrative officials in government, or remained in graduate school to do research. After several years, practically all graduates, now as in the past, take an examination in order to earn qualification as licensed architects. Those who pass are eligible to become members of the prefectural Architects and Building Engineers Association. These associations collectively represent the largest professional organization in the field. The Japan Institute of Architects, made up of individuals belonging to architectural design offices, has 4,800 members, but the Architects and Building Engineers Associations have a total membership nearly twice as large. On the other hand, the Architectural Institute of Japan, which was established to promote research studies and the exchange of information in various fields of architecture, including engineering and history, has 37,000 members, not all of whom are licensed architects. AIJ members, who include architects, scholars, engineers, and persons in different niches in various corporations, actively communicate with one another through sectional meetings and at the annual general meeting. The AIJ Prizes, which are awarded each year at the general meeting, are considered the most prestigious of the many architectural prizes in Japan. As these two institutional examples make clear, ­cross-­fertilization between different fields has played a large part in promoting both the pursuit of technology and the pursuit of beauty in the architecture of modern Japan. The artistic autonomy of architecture became a much-­debated subject upon the arrival of postmodernism in the Japanese architectural world around 1970. Yet even Arata Isozaki, the leading advocate of the idea of the autonomy of architecture, has pursued technological themes in many works during his career. Japan has a relatively weak tradition of locally based professional practice, no doubt accounted for by the fact that two-­thirds of all architectural offices are concentrated in Tokyo. Architects of different generations and backgrounds are engaged instead in attempts to create thematic works of architecture. Participating in various competitions and proposals, and using the few opportunities for actual work available to them to develop fresh ideas, young architects in particular must try to draw the interest of the media. This is true not only in Japan but in most large European cities. The pursuit of experimental ideas has been the architect’s raison d’être. That experimental approach has had an effect on the building industry. For example, manufacturers of glass have expanded their line to include

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doors and window frames, roofs, and even the main supporting structure. They have begun to take part in all stages of a project, from initial design to construction. Such developments are leading to the emergence of new trades that cross the boundaries of established trades. People in these new trades are as yet few in number, but architects on the cutting edge are finding that collaborating with them can yield innovative designs. Various systems of cooperation have thus been available to architects, engineers, fabricators, and construction companies in Japan in the last several decades. Here I would like to describe in greater detail different ways in which architects and construction companies have collaborated, using as examples three masters of ­twentieth-­century Japanese architecture: Togo Murano (1891–­1984), Kunio Maekawa (1905–­1986), and Kenzo Tange (1913–­2005). Murano, who was active to the end of his life, visited a construction site the day before he died at the age of ­ninety-­three. After graduating from university, Murano apprenticed with an Osaka office and subsequently opened his own office in the same city. His work, which was mostly for the private sector, was not orthodox modernist in style, having instead an expressionist aspect. The architect, who was also accomplished in the sukiya style, remained creative even in old age. He designed not only architecture but furniture, lighting fixtures, and ornament. Especially remarkable is the fact that Murano completed half of his life’s work after the age of seventy. Close ties tend to develop between architect, builder, and client in the Osaka area. The local culture has traditionally been conducive to their working together on a building project. Murano had at his disposal a full complement of collaborators for both design and construction work. The large construction company that was involved in many of Murano’s works set aside for him a team of seasoned designers and a site manager. His professional office, Murano and Mori Associated Architects, did not produce many design drawings prior to construction. The site manager familiar with Murano’s work and a veteran estimator would calculate what the total cost of the building would be on the basis of past experience. Once construction work began, an architect from Murano’s office and Murano’s team of designers from the construction company would collaborate in producing detailed drawings. Numerous full-­scale construction drawings and mock‑ups of building elements would be prepared. Murano continued to make changes until he was satisfied, and was not overly concerned about the various increases in cost the changes entailed. The construction company,

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having already factored Murano’s way of working into their calculations, voiced few objections. For the company, the important thing was to carry out the work in an atmosphere of cooperation. In a small country such as Japan, an architect and a construction company find themselves working together on many different projects. For a construction company, establishing trust is often a greater priority than making a little immediate profit. Murano continued into his nineties to channel much of his creative energy as an architect into on-­site design. Naturally, on a large project, some parts of the design task interested him more than others. Murano took a rationalist approach and left the design of those parts with which he was less concerned to the construction company. He was an architect who adopted in the latter half of the twentieth century the role of a medieval Baumeister. Yet his favorite reading matter on the commuter train he took to his office in Osaka is said to have been Das Kapital. Kenzo Tange was Murano’s junior by more than twenty years, but their careers overlapped from the 1950s to the late 1970s. Tange, a figure in the mainstream of the Japanese architectural world, was on the faculty of Tokyo University when he designed his best-­known works, but he also had a design office called Urtec outside the university. During those years, Tange designed each work around a different theme—for example, the use of a new structural system to create a large space—as did his contemporaries Eero Saarinen and Paul Rudolph in the United States. Many of Tange’s works demanded such a high standard of construction and involved the application of such new structural systems that new construction methods had to be developed for them. Unlike works by Murano, Tange’s works required the participation of construction companies to solve technological problems. To improve coordination on the site, a construction company would typically send several talented members of its design department to Urtec at an early stage in the design process to form a collaborative team with Tange’s architects. That team would eventually move to the site office once construction began. The architect’s word was law in Tange’s case, as it was in the case of Murano. There were no qualms about making many changes during construction work. Kunio Maekawa graduated from Tokyo University ten years before Tange, in 1928, which happens to have been the year of my birth. Maekawa departed for Europe on the night of the day he graduated. Once in the Soviet Union, he took the Siberian Railway. Eventually he made his way to the atelier of Le Corbusier, where he stayed for approximately two years. In later years, Maekawa worked

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earnestly to improve the social standing of architects and to establish standards of professionalism. He served as the first president of the Japan Institute of Architects. Maekawa probably had the deepest understanding of European history and culture, including music and literature, of any Japanese architect of his generation. Tange and Murano saw aesthetic performance as their ultimate objective in architecture. Although he was naturally interested in aesthetic performance, Maekawa was equally concerned with building performance. Ideally, of course, architectural design is a synthesis of both, but that is difficult to achieve because aesthetic performance and building performance are by no means universally compatible. Building performance is a matter of the functionality and, above all, the durability of a building. Maekawa was an architect who dealt seriously with not only aesthetic problems but also pragmatic problems that contemporary architecture confronts, such as weathering and deterioration. In the case of any important building he designed, Maekawa is said to have assembled every year on the anniversary of the building’s completion the builder, the engineers, and the architect from his office who had been in charge of the project. Together they would inspect the building and afterward discuss technical problems that they had discovered. In the 1950s and early 1960s, Maekawa tended to use exposed concrete as a building finish, as did his teacher Le Corbusier. However, he soon began to recognize that air pollution caused by increased industrialization and urbanization was damaging the surface of exposed concrete. The preset brick tiles that he later developed in collaboration with a manufacturer were among the most durable exterior finish materials developed in postwar Japan. Maekawa stopped using exposed concrete as an all-­purpose material. Maekawa wrote: The great French author Zola once said that the fictional construct called the novel would not hold up even for a moment without “truth in the details.” Ruskin pointed out that the white cloud in the sky that reminds us of a lamb is in fact nothing more than a cluster of water drops floating in the air. Truth in architecture seems to me to be something like the drops of water that create the illusion of a white lamb . . . . Architecture too is a grand work of fiction based on “truth in the details.”3

I think of Maekawa as an architect who continued to bear the cross of modernism throughout his life.

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My generation was influenced by these outstanding architects. We listened to them speaking about their design methods and philosophies, and we saw what they created. Today, each architect continues to search for an ideal way of coordinating design and construction. What, then, are the problems that Japanese architects confront today, and what are the prospects for the resolution of those problems? First, the Japanese architectural world has been weakened by the recession that has gripped the country since the bursting of the bubble. This is especially true of all fields of the building industry. Even the large construction companies are no longer in a position to be as generous as they once were. The period of harmony and goodwill between architects and builders that our predecessors enjoyed is ending under the relentless pressure of rationalization. In particular, the fierce competition in ­private-­sector construction that is driving down prices has all the marks of a war of attrition between construction companies. The restructuring these companies are carrying out in the name of rationalization is mostly in departments that are not directly involved in construction work. Design and research departments are beginning to feel the effects of restructuring in diminished size and capability. This will eventually leave even fewer companies in possession of the skills necessary to take on technologically demanding projects. The situation can only become more oligopolistic. The unit cost of building in projects in the public sector, as opposed to the private sector, has been maintained at a certain level. In the prevailing political climate in Japan, construction projects, particularly local construction projects, are apt to be parceled out to a number of small and ­medium-­size builders. A development with quite serious repercussions for the architectural profession is a new policy adopted by the national government to curtail the traditional power of the architect to supervise construction. The government is increasingly awarding seventy percent of the supervision fee to offices specializing in construction supervision (although in reality, most of the work these offices do is paperwork required by public agencies). This development is likely to upset the present system which enables the architect to collaborate with the builder, fabricators, and manufacturers in conceiving, testing, and ultimately implementing design ideas during the construction process. Has the collaboration between architects and the construction industry in Japan since World War II yielded anything that is exportable to other regions in this era of economic internationalization? The answer is no. Japan may export

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automobiles and home appliances, but it has nothing exportable in the way of buildings or even peripheral products. For excellent furniture and hardware, for example, we quite often turn to Scandinavian and German products. They tend to be far superior in beauty, durability, and price, even when transport costs and patent fees are included. Although I will not go into the details here, many companies in those countries adopt a long-­term strategy and view that emphasize steady improvements in products rather than constant model changes. This suggests that we Japanese need to reexamine our own cultural attitude toward manufacturing, especially the manufacturing of durable consumer goods. I have had the opportunity to visit two recently completed works: the Mediatheque in Sendai by Toyo Ito and the Art Hall in Kirishima Kogen, Kagoshima Prefecture, by Kunihiko Hayakawa. Both embody the concept that Dana Buntrock calls “leading architects as lead users.”4 In particular, the Mediatheque, in achieving a new integration of architecture, structure, and environmental systems, is the most innovative high-­tech building since the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank by Norman Foster. Hayakawa’s Art Hall, on the other hand, is a work in which ­already-­developed elements have been carefully and splendidly assembled. The architect’s idea for the cylindrical air-­conditioning duct of transparent acrylic that cuts through the exhibition space, for example, was realized only through the joint efforts of people of different trades, engineers, manufacturers, and the builder. The object is beautiful not simply because it appeals to the eye but because it represents the product of human collaboration. Both works are public buildings, and their designs are based on winning entries in open competitions. The chairman of the jury for the Mediatheque competition was Arata Isozaki; I served in the same capacity for the Art Hall competition. The public agency administering the facility to be designed is often the biggest obstacle to the realization of innovative architectural ideas, but that was not the case in these two works. Overcoming differences and arriving at splendid solutions, the architects and the clients have done an admirable job. I am frankly not optimistic about the future of the Japanese architectural world. Works such as these, however, though few in number, succeed in expressing the spirit of the age and will serve to transmit to future generations our cultural memory. That, I believe, is the ultimate role of architecture. We architects must never allow the flame of architecture to be extinguished.

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To g o M u r a n o

Togo Murano, architect, born 1891, died 1984. That single line is to me deeply affecting in its starkness. Until he died at the venerable age of ­ninety-­three, Murano remained an active architect whose every work was noted with interest. The entire process of modernization of Japanese architecture—and, indeed, a considerable part of the process of modernization of Japanese society—took place within his lifetime. As successive waves of modernization swept over Japan, Murano showed a rare tenacity as he created one impressive work after another. The first great wave of modernization in Japan occurred during the Meiji Restoration, ­twenty-­three years before Murano’s birth. For many architects and artists, the new ideas and movements to which they are exposed in their formative years set the course for their subsequent creative activities. For Murano, the years between 1910 and 1930, when he was young and most impressionable, were his formative period. Japan had already been undergoing modernization for more than half a century. Society was maturing, and architects in Japan were no longer concerned exclusively with modernization or Westernization. A greater diversity of views, including the view that old traditions needed to be reconsidered, was developing. At the same time, modernization had given birth to a new profession in Japan, that of the architect. It had also awakened in every field a consciousness of individual identity. The image of the architect as someone who expresses his personal view of architecture through not only designs but words in debate with others was beginning to emerge in Murano’s formative period. In Japan, modernization was once tantamount to Westernization. Western countries had approximately a hundred years’ start on Japan in terms of moderni­

zation, and at the beginning of the twentieth century, Western culture was still an overwhelming reality for the Japanese. Moreover, Europe itself was undergoing an upheaval at the time. Neoclassical and historicist architecture was being overthrown. There was only a slight time lag between the appearance of Art Nouveau, Secessionism, and modern design in Europe and their introduction in Japan. Although the pace of change was rapid, Japanese society and architecture by then had the capacity to absorb such change. As Japan modernized, Western architecture was constructed as symbols of authority in the guise of government offices and other public buildings, and as symbols of capitalism in the guise of banks, corporate headquarters, and department stores. To these were added the residences of the upper class. Western architecture was thus introduced into Japan within a certain political framework. However, the vigorous popular culture that had developed in the Edo period (1615–­1868) survived, particularly in Tokyo and Osaka. Attempts were made by some master carpenters to Japanize Western architecture as early as the beginning of the Meiji period in the late 1860s. A well-­known example was the Tsukiji Hotel, an eclectic blend of East and West designed by the carpenter Kisuke Shimizu and constructed in the foreign settlement of the Tsukiji district in Tokyo. Such works may at first glance seem to be instances of an imported, colonialist architecture, but they can also be regarded as signs that the Japanese, in their characteristic way, were again assimilating and Japanizing foreign cultural influences. Moreover, the traditional architectural styles of Japan to be found in wooden buildings continued to survive, even as the country underwent modernization in its urban areas. By the 1920s, modernism had emerged in Europe. It championed mass culture and possessed an ideological aspect. Culture, which up to then had been closely associated with authority, was liberated for the first time and allowed to become a part of the broader, mass society. Gradually culture became a political issue and politics a cultural issue. In the period of Taisho democracy (1912–­1926), the burgeoning of democratic ideals and movements after World War I, Japan also saw a widespread acceptance of the notion of the self. But the worldwide rise of dictatorship and nationalism in the 1930s found in Japan a country with only a short history of such a modern, liberal notion. Architectural expression became skewed as the conflict with ideology began to manifest itself, resulting in an eclectic tendency with strong nationalistic overtones. Some architects who espoused liberalism adopted the Japanese sukiya style as a way of sublimating the conflict between tradition and modernization.

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Murano was one of those architects. Sukiya is imbued with a spirit that is critical of the established forms of the mainstream and assertive of individuality. It is therefore consistent with a belief in the self rather than the group. Moreover, it has a long history and is by no means un-­Japanese. At the same time, it is characterized by open-­endedness and freedom of architectural form, just as early modernist architecture was. Unlike vernacular architecture, it always seeks refinement as well as simplicity. It is, in short, a world of artistry. Murano sought a new architectural direction in sukiya because it agreed with his own personal predilections, not simply because of political circumstances in the 1930s. The Hanshin district around Osaka and Kobe where he lived provided a superb cultural environment that enabled him to deepen his understanding of sukiya. During World War II, Murano, like other Japanese architects, had no work and was free to pursue his interests. The understanding he gained during this period no doubt enabled him to create his subsequent masterpieces in sukiya architecture. Inevitably, Murano in his youth was concerned with issues such as freedom of architectural expression, the relationship between freedom and style, the link between freedom and modern thought, the conflict with political authority (which at its highest level is represented by the state), and the place of art in history. He often discussed such matters in later lectures and in writings that refer to this formative period in his life. During Murano’s formative years, diverse waves swept over Japan, and architects became identified with one wave or another. Murano was one of the few architects who refused to commit himself to any single style or movement. He was above all himself, not a member of any architectural clique. That may explain in part the expressive diversity and range of his architecture during the subsequent

4.6 Foyer of the Ube Public Hall, 1937, by Togo Murano.

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fifty years of his career. Murano was undeniably influenced in this respect by the Taisho democracy. Of all the architects of his generation, why did he alone take such a position? It should be emphasized that he prided himself on being an artist. During the Taisho period Murano also learned the down-­to‑earth, practical aspects of architecture as an apprentice (1918–­1929) in the office of Setsu Watanabe. Watanabe was one of the few architects at that time with an active practice in the Kansai region. Although he designed in an American Beaux-­Arts style, he was a leading proponent of an economic and rational approach to building design, and was particularly influential in introducing into Japan the service core, a feature borrowed from American skyscrapers. Murano underwent a thorough training in the nuts and bolts of an architectural practice. That laid the groundwork for his subsequent efforts in the design of ­large-­scale commercial buildings, and he showed far greater prowess in such work than others of his generation, despite his strong artistic bent. Murano started his own office in the early 1930s, and among his many initial designs the works that stand out are the Morigo Building (1931) and the Ube Public Hall (1937). To these one should add the World Peace Memorial Cathedral (1953) in Hiroshima, although that structure dates from after World War II. After leaving Watanabe’s office, Murano went on an extended journey to the West via Siberia. During that journey, he was particularly impressed by the Stockholm City Hall (1923) by Ragnar Östberg. He wrote in his journal of the sublime character of architecture, using the city hall as an example. Certainly the Morigo Building and the Ube Public Hall reveal a strong affinity to the late expressionist architecture found in northern Europe. The silhouette of the World Peace Memorial Cathedral and the architectural images of H. P. Berlage and Auguste

4.7 World Peace Memorial Cathedral, Hiroshima, 1953, Murano.

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Perret have much in common. It may also be interesting to compare the cornice of the Morigo Building with that of Louis Sullivan’s Guaranty Building (1896) in Buffalo. These three works by Murano are by no means parochial; they can bear comparison with buildings outside Japan. Indeed, although modern architecture in Japan did not then have a long history, there were a number of buildings being designed in the 1930s—such as the houses of Sutemi Horiguchi and Antonin Raymond, and the Japan Pavilion by Junzo Sakakura for the 1937 Paris World Exposition—that were as good as works being built in Europe. It is remarkable that excellent works like these were being produced in what was still regarded as a remote corner of the world. Murano used to talk about honke-­dori—literally, the usurpation of the status of the main line. He was pointing out the fact that an offshoot from the main line of cultural development can often overtake its original model. A close examination of these three works shows that beneath the guise of modernism there is already the clear imprint of a unique personality. Ube Public Hall was renovated in the early 1990s, and I had the opportunity to look closely at the building. The superb gift for ornament Murano was to display in his later years was already much in evidence in details such as the attractive, ­mushroom-­shaped lobby columns clad in massive, colorful marble, the checkered pattern of the floor, and the lighting fixtures with that fascinating decorative quality so characteristic of Murano’s work. On the exterior of the World Peace Memorial Cathedral, he used glossy slag brick as infill between the concrete frame. In the early 1950s, when the cathedral was completed, Hiroshima was still in the process of rebuilding itself, and there were not the means to build lavishly. Murano composed a moving requiem through the contrast of glossy brick and textured concrete. Some years ago, on a drizzly day, I revisited the cathedral for the first time in many years. Even as many other postwar buildings have gradually become dilapidated or been demolished, this cathedral demonstrates magnificently by its exquisite ensemble of materials that a concrete building can mature as well as any masonry or wooden structure. Murano was one of the few architects who were able to endow modernist architecture, which was beginning to show doctrinaire tendencies, with the warmth of the human touch. He did this by using many materials and colors in a very free way. After World War II, there was, in addition to the modernist and expressionist tendencies notable in prewar works, a new free-­spirited quality. When one considers that Murano was ­sixty-­two when he designed the World Peace Memorial

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Cathedral, the volume of work he produced and the tenacity and vitality he displayed as an architect for the next thirty years are nothing short of astonishing. There are few parallels either in Japan or in the rest of the world. Yet at the same time, the quality of work during the twenty years following the end of the war was uneven due to the sheer volume of production, and it was during this period that Murano came to be labeled by some as a commercial architect. It is often asked why Murano received so little attention abroad. His style during this period may provide an answer. For one thing, he had practically no interest in the integration of technology, space, and expression—a theme that engaged many architects throughout the world in the postwar era. In most cases Murano adopted a structural system using an ­equal-­span frame; the building could be a university facility, an office building, or a city hall. When the budget was limited, as in a university building, the frame was directly expressed. With a department store or an office building, where the client’s purse strings were not as tight, Murano was always interested in creating a visual pattern on the surface covering the structure. In this way he took the undogmatic, practical approach he had learned as an apprentice in the office of Setsu Watanabe, and never confronted the theoretical issues that so concerned later modernists. Murano’s interest was in further enriching the vision of architecture he already possessed. Indeed, mainstream opinion in the Japanese architectural world at the time was that the direction shown by his work was contrary to the progressive spirit of architecture. Yet there were architects and critics, albeit in the minority, who argued against the establishment of simplistic architectural criteria, and among them Murano’s architecture continued to have an appeal. Even a small country like Japan has had its share of dichotomies such as academicism versus populism, center versus periphery (in Japan’s case, Tokyo versus Kansai), and orthodoxy versus heterodoxy. In the 1960s, however, these dichotomies began to be reconsidered, and a new schema emerged in Japan and the rest of the world. Statements of belief by certain architects during this time made a particularly strong impression on me. One was Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture by Robert Venturi.1 I was also stirred by the espousal of an “inclusive” architecture by architects such as Charles Moore and Robert Stern. They denied the existence of absolute criteria and forms, cast doubt on the inevitability of progress, and saw compositional principles as subject to external forces but ultimately based on architecture’s own rules. Eventually such beliefs led to assertions about the applicability

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of principles found in buildings of the past to today’s architecture and the usefulness of ornament. It is not very difficult to discover expressions of this new spirit, albeit in fragmentary form, in Murano’s best works during this period. I say fragmentary, because Murano himself was intuitive in his approach and by no means thoroughly logical in developing his architecture. In my opinion this period is best represented by the Nihon Seimei Hibiya Building and Nissei Theater (1963). Confronted by the Nihon Seimei Building, even his sympathizers, who were in the minority, were shocked. Most people were too bewildered to make any sort of judgment. This work must be seen in the context of a society undergoing major changes. The National Olympic Stadiums, perhaps Kenzo Tange’s best-­known work, were completed a year later. At the time, Japan had embarked on a period of intensive economic growth, and a phrase much in vogue announced that the postwar era was over. Economic development had reached such a stage that an enterprise like Nihon Seimei ( Japan’s largest insurance company) could not only invest some of its accumulated capital in its own headquarters but also act as a patron of the arts; for inside, a theater, still a rare cultural facility in Japan, was provided. In many respects, the program for the building was unprecedented. The work can be said to have been one of the first multiuse buildings in the country. In addition, it was one of the first projects to enjoy the luxury of a granite exterior finish. In that sense it heralded the end of the postwar era. This building was thus quite exceptional in its program, materials, and location (adjacent to Wright’s old Imperial Hotel and facing Hibiya Park, an open space in front of the Imperial Palace). Here, Murano chose a very eclectic form of architectural expression: the cornice emphasized the horizontal; the exterior

4.8 Nihon Seimei Building/​Nissei Theater, Tokyo, 1963, Murano.

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finish was granite; an ornamental stone framework was arranged around each window; and the wall surface, which stepped back, and the thick pilotis were highly plastic. These features hinted at late expressionist influences and suggested traces of historicist motifs. Nevertheless, they were characteristic of Murano’s designs and ultimately unlike anything done before. Inside, the marble and metal elements in the lobby had Art Nouveau overtones. The interior of the theater had a cavernous, plastic quality. The wall surface featured a glass mosaic that Murano was to frequently use in subsequent works, and the ceiling was finished in ­mother-­of‑pearl embedded in plaster. Murano rejected the notion that the interior had to be integrated with the exterior; he emphasized the independence and autonomy of the individual parts of the building and made allusions to historical precedent from feudal to modern times. Furthermore, he adopted a form of expression on the outside that made no direct statement about function, yet demonstrated a desire that the building be a part of the streetscape. The building can be said to anticipate the much later advent of postmodernism. When Tange designed the National Olympic Stadiums, he was ­fifty-­one and at his peak as an architect. Murano, on the other hand, was already ­seventy-­three. These two works are interesting for the dramatic way they reveal how modern architecture had undergone a schism even in this corner of Asia. The irony of history is that the outside world was to impinge for a moment on Murano’s private world of the self. Murano’s creative energy showed no sign of flagging after that work. Around 1965, when I ended my extended stay in the United States and began practicing in Japan, I gradually became more acquainted with Murano—at first through his works and reports of his activities, and then through personal contact with him. In his seventies, he became even more catholic in his design outlook. Such an

4.9 Interior of Nissei Theater: the ceiling is inlaid with thousands of iridescent ­mother-­of‑pearl disks.

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advanced stage in life is more apt to narrow an architect’s scope of vision; as a consequence, many architects are liable to become wrapped up in thought and remembrance. Murano certainly discovered his own inner vision early in life and did not idly pursue trends in the outside world. However, he was always quite eager to expand his personal world and continued in his own way to seek new things. I first met him at some gathering when he was in his early eighties. He said that he enjoyed the trip overseas he made each year with his wife to see new buildings. No doubt he was always trying to recapture the excitement he felt on his first, youthful journey to the West. At this stage, his boldness and almost childlike spirit with regard to design were expressed best not in the massing of ­large-­scale buildings, but in guest houses, small museums, and teahouses. In them were crystallized those qualities distinctive to Murano’s work. The things he had encountered since his youth were filtered through his view of the world and his view of art. They were internalized and reborn in developed and refined form. The process of creation was for him not linear but cumulative; he did not integrate so much as arrange. At times, a design would break down because the arrangement was not logical, but he was familiar with the risks involved and was not afraid to take them. His attitude was indeed that of a young man. He had the same childlike approach to design that Picasso displayed in his late ceramics and sketches. However, Murano also had that heightened sensitivity to both criticism and praise characteristic of artists. As with Frank Lloyd Wright and Philip Johnson, the source of his creative energy was an insatiable hunger for life. Murano found complete expression in a number of small projects designed in his later years. Although they have very different themes, the Yatsugatake Art Museum and Shojuso Guest House, both completed in 1979, stand out among these works. Murano preferred to design buildings in which the skin, rather than the structural frame, figured prominently. I have already mentioned that he employed glass mosaic and ­mother-­of‑pearl on an ­unheard-­of scale as interior finishes in the Nissei Theater, but he was thoroughly familiar with the qualities of a wide range of materials, including fabric and paper. In his buildings, these materials frequently appeared in a new guise. The exhibit area inside the Yatsugatake Art Museum features curtains of white lace that are in marked contrast to the simple materials on the exterior: the precast concrete of the hemispherical domes and cement blocks. Light entering the building is reflected on these curtains and creates a tactile world that is totally unexpected. The plan, suggestive of caves found

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in Turkey, provides a variegated space. This is one of the rare works by Murano in which form and space are integrated, even though the exterior finish and the interior finish are in total opposition. At the age of ­eighty-­eight, Murano showed us once more a world, possible only in architecture, in which the rational and the irrational could coexist. The Shojuso Guest House is a work that has a personal association for me. After its completion, I had a chance to dine there with Murano and the architectural historian Takashi Hasegawa and to discuss impressions of the building. That occasion was also the last time I had any direct contact with Togo Murano. Shojuso was built as the personal guest house of Sasuke Idemitsu, who had made a fortune in oil. It is said that Idemitsu, in commissioning Murano, told the architect to spend as much time and money as was needed; in fact, the design and construction took so long that the client died before the building was finished. The guest house consists of both ­Western- and ­Japanese-­style reception areas and private rooms. Murano had already developed his mature sukiya style at an early stage in his career. Unlike modernist architecture, the spirit of sukiya is expressed in a more condensed space. For that reason, there are few signs of dissonance even though he designed in his characteristically free way. Several architects of Murano’s generation worked in the sukiya style, but I feel most at rest in his sukiya buildings. There is nothing forced or stiff about his work as there is in the works of others. Sukiya is a world that involves not just vision but all the senses. Perhaps Murano’s work is reassuring because he was more skilled at creating a fully tactile space. It is interesting to note that in the ­Western-­style portion of Shojuso, the deviation from the norm that is characteristic of sukiya creates some dissonances in the design precisely because the subject is ­Western-­style space. However, the dissonances are enjoyable because there is lightness. Was Murano aware that dissonance, accompanied by heaviness, can become disagreeable? Lightness is a quality that early modernism shares with sukiya. The camber of the roof over the ­Western-­style reception room suggests the plenitude of the space within. At the same time, the carefully detailed roof edge creates an impression of lightness like that of a silk cushion. Murano often designed furniture. The rounded frame of the chair arranged in a corner of the room reserved for special guests is characteristic of his work. Lightness here is not just a visual quality; it is a matter of touch, color, and the feeling of space. It is the product of relationships between various elements that have been established according to a clearly

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defined worldview. That there are outstanding works to be discovered among the smaller buildings designed in his later years is probably because of the presence of lightness generated by such relationships. However, his work also demonstrates that this approach, used on too large a scale, can result in a design that is inert and lacking in tension. The first half of modern architectural history in Japan, from 1860 to 1920, was primarily directed at assimilating Western eclecticism. However, a Japanization also took place during that process of adoption. As the second half of modern architectural history began in the 1920s and 1930s, modernist thinking reached Japan. Terunobu Fujimori, in his Modern Architecture in Japan, writes that in acquiring modernism architects responded in the same, characteristically Japanese way that an earlier generation of architects had in adopting eclecticism.2 Though few in number, there are examples of modern architecture produced in Japan, particularly in the 1930s—among them the Ube Public Hall by Murano—that are comparable to European works of the period. Bruno Taut spent approximately three years in Japan during this period, and in his journal he observed that the social status and awareness of architects were far lower in Japan than in Europe. What is notable is that despite these obstacles, outstanding works were produced in Japan at that time. The efforts of architects in the 1930s laid the foundation for the gradual postwar transformation of Japan from a recipient of modern architecture to a producer. Murano is one of the few architects whose life and career spanned both periods. By the 1930s he had established himself as an architect and possessed a firm view of the world and of architecture that differed from those of others of his generation. Murano believed in the existence of art that transcends ideologies and styles, and touches the human spirit—and throughout his life he was not afraid to practice what he believed in. In addition to an artist’s eye for beauty, he also had a marvelous intuition about what ordinary people regarded as contemporary. At times these qualities made him unpopular in the architectural world. This tendency to dismiss him was particularly strong in the 1950s and 1960s, when architects were expected to address an international audience. But as architecture gradually came to be recognized once more as a cultural phenomenon with many different layers of significance, his works began to be understood anew and reevaluated. Perhaps this was inevitable, for despite the criticism, Murano was confident in his own architecture.

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S ti l l n e ss a n d P l enit ude: The Archit ect ure of Yoshio Taniguchi

In 1974, Yoshio Taniguchi published his first project after opening his own office. A small house in a Tokyo suburb, it was completed a year later. The House at Yukigaya is a court house with a two-­story-­high wall that encloses a variety of spaces. I remember it quite well, partly because I contributed a short piece to an architectural journal in which I described my impressions of the building. Entering the vestibule by way of a courtyard set in a corner of a square box, one encountered a series of spaces that gradually ascended in a spiral toward the living room in the depths of the house on the second floor. The walls and floor of the courtyard were completely covered with white tiles approximately fifteen centimeters square, and this generated a floating quality. The eye was drawn from the courtyard to the blue sky framed by the courtyard, and it was almost as if one were being lifted heavenward. I recall this spatial experience as if it were yesterday. Although subsequent buildings have varied in scale and function, Taniguchi’s goal has consistently been to provide visitors with a fresh, variegated experience by means of carefully devised spatial stratagems within a framework created from simple elements. Many years have passed since Taniguchi first received training as an architect. Over those decades, architecture throughout the world, including Japan, has changed in diverse ways, and radical changes have also occurred in the environment in which architecture is practiced. That Taniguchi has been able to pursue and fulfill his own set objectives, and to elaborate his own chosen themes to the point where no one today can dispute the excellence of his work, is a tremendous achievement precisely because of the rapidly changing nature of the times. His achievement testifies to his strength of spirit. On one recent occasion, he wrote about the morality of design. The phrase has a somewhat old-­fashioned ring, but at a time when

the production and consumption of many works of architecture displays a blithe disregard for the moral implications of design, his words have weight. Taniguchi has rarely discussed in print the philosophy and method behind his design, preferring instead to offer terse, quite sachlich explanations concerning just-­completed works. One exception was his essay “Concerning Design,” published in Shinkenchiku upon the completion of the 1978 Shiseido Art Museum, in which he discussed a series of past works: When drawings of the main buildings I have designed in the last five years are juxtaposed, the fact that they all involve the pursuit of certain configurations is obvious to anyone. They are the result of combining simple but contradictory figures, namely centripetal and centrifugal forms, and space and mass.1

Some years later, he made the following statement in explaining the Shiseido Art Museum: The most basic issue architecture confronts is finding the best response to the specific site conditions and pragmatic requirements that are presented. And the most basic elements in designing a space are materials, light, color and ­proportion.2

Although in subsequent works the space created by the figures increases in complexity, those two statements taken together summarize the basic stratagem of Taniguchi’s design approach. I would like to examine in more detail the question of how he came to develop such a stratagem, and to locate his design approach in the broader context of architectural thought. In the early 1980s, Richard Padovan contributed to a British magazine an interesting essay entitled “The Pavilion and the Court.”3 Padovan discussed how the architectural movement known as De Stijl, which was founded in 1917, influenced not only Van Doesburg, one of its founders, but other architects such as Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe, and Rietveld, and how they subsequently interpreted its theory—especially how they attempted in the design of houses to use a De Stijl-­type approach to effect a dialectical development from the two basic residential forms that had evolved in the course of Europe’s long history, the pavilion and

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the court house. He takes note of the fact that in the Barcelona Pavilion and the Villa Savoye—which, coincidentally, were both built in 1929—the architects, following different design processes, developed in the case of Mies a centripetal space in a centrifugal arrangement of walls, and in the case of Le Corbusier a centrifugal spatial movement in a centripetal enclosure.4 In the De Stijl manifesto, Van Doesburg, of course, advocated the independence of the basic architectural elements—walls, floors, and ceilings—and their free movement and organization, including their mutual intervention. The attempt to endow space with a centrifugal quality was an effort to do away with the hitherto accepted notion of architecture as a closed box. According to Padovan, the pavilion is generally situated in the countryside, and integrated with its surrounding landscape by virtue of the centrifugal character of its space. The court house is typically situated in the city, and integrated with the mesocosmos created by the city by virtue of its centripetal nature. As Taniguchi himself acknowledges in the passage quoted above, the use of centrifugal and centripetal qualities, separately or in tandem, is basic to the spatial dynamic of practically all his works, and the figures to which they give rise form the framework of his architecture. The Shiseido Art Museum is the result of the skillful integration in plan of the two concepts of the pavilion and the court. It may be worthwhile, with the help of Padovan’s text, to continue a bit further with a discussion of Mies, with whom Taniguchi appears to have much affinity, and the path that led Mies to the Barcelona Pavilion. The proposal for a Brick Country House, published by Mies in 1923, can be said to be the first modernist work in Europe. The freely extended walls and slab endow space with fluidity: yet at the same time, the neoplasticist tendency that Mies revealed also

4.10 House at Yukigaya, Tokyo, 1974, by Yoshio Taniguchi.

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exerted a strong influence on the composition. Karl Friedrich Schinkel, who had considerable influence on Mies, designed in the House in Charlottenhof a complex composed of several pavilions arranged asymmetrically and freely linked by terraces and pergolas. Padovan points out that its influence appeared before the Brick Country House in the Kröller House and concludes that the same influence led, six years after the Brick Country House, to the Barcelona Pavilion. I am probably not alone in sensing a strong affinity between the two houses by Mies and Taniguchi’s Ken Domon Museum of Photography (1983) and his later Toyota Municipal Museum of Art (1995). In particular, the Kröller House, with its pool of water in front of the building and asymmetrical masses arranged between trees and linked by pergolas, has the same organizational principle as that of the two works by Taniguchi. I have not alluded to these works in order to suggest that Taniguchi used them as a model. The design process is inherently complex, and the architect himself has difficulty explaining a great deal about it. There is nothing more annoying for an architect than to have someone suddenly point out a similar work and to declare that to have been his original inspiration. The wellspring of an architect’s ideas lies in the depths of his consciousness, where the diverse experiences he has accumulated, sometimes unconsciously, as well as factors of environment and genes, are at work; personal history is the text in which these are woven together. Architecture is not just something that the architect happens to hit upon on a given occasion. It is the consequence of all these factors connecting and relating to one another—at times naturally, at other times accidentally. This is true of all architects and all works of architecture. Whether or not the work that is the product of that process can stand up to careful analysis and appraisal is another

4.11 Ken Domon Museum, Sakata, 1983, Taniguchi. 4.12 Toyota Municipal Museum of Art, 1995, Taniguchi.

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matter entirely. Here, I would like to examine what this similarity in the works of Taniguchi and Mies signifies. Taniguchi was one of the first architects of the postwar generation to receive his architectural education outside Japan. Naturally, being the son of a well­known architect, Yoshiro Taniguchi (1904–­1979), he was exposed from an early age to architecture, both traditional and modern. Yet he majored in mechanical engineering at Keio University, one of the oldest academic institutions in Japan, and it was only in the three and a half years he then spent in the Graduate School of Design at Harvard University that he received a true architectural education. As he himself remarks, modernism was at a dead end at the beginning of the 1960s. A feeling of being in a dead-­end situation prevailed, not just in the United States but in Europe as well, and it was to lead, in the years after Taniguchi’s graduation, to worldwide student unrest. He says that in the oppressive atmosphere that is characteristic of periods of transition, he came to believe that only through forging creative relationships to the city could architecture develop new possibilities, and that he developed a strong interest in urban design. The early 1960s were a time when Josep Lluis Sert, having taken over from Gropius at the beginning of the 1950s, was in the process of consolidating a new regime in GSD at Harvard. At the time, Harvard and Penn were the universities with the strongest urban design programs. Sert had the benefit of an international network that had developed around CIAM in Europe. He himself had studied as a youth in Le Corbusier’s atelier and, being a Catalan, possessed a Mediterranean sensibility. It is a fact that such tendencies were frequently reflected in his educational policies. It would be a mistake, however, to think that everyone who studied at GSD at the time shared his thinking. No single architect can change overnight the architectural department of a great educational institution like Harvard, whatever may be the case at other universities. Around that time, many of the great postwar scholars of Europe were gathered in the humanities departments, which formed the core of Harvard; and in the Department of Art History and the Fogg Museum, which were closely tied to architecture, the focus, in keeping with tradition, was clearly on European art. With respect to architectural history, both Sigfried Giedion and Eduard Sekler belonged to the tradition of the German school of history. This diversity of thought and opinion made Harvard what it was. I do not know what sort of influence this essentially European education exerted on Taniguchi during the nearly four years he spent at Harvard. The way in

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which his works have subsequently evolved and the rigorous nature of his details, however, make it clear that his thinking and the products of his practice are by no means Mediterranean but, rather, Germanic in character. It would be only natural if his knowledge and interest in the engineering aspect of architecture played a part in this formal rigor and clarity, and it may also be imagined that the interest shown by his father in his youth in early European modernism might have planted a seed that has borne fruit in the son. His works reveal the use of primary elements such as wall, slab, and podium, which I will discuss below, to develop diverse masses and voids. The deployment of these spaces is characterized by rhythm, flow, repose, and the upward and downward movement and bending of the line of vision. Behind the skillful dramatization of experience that is appealing to the senses—for example, the way in which the next space is anticipated and signaled—are quite traditional Japanese protocols. This Japanese aspect, however, is apparent only in the way a response is made to the context, in the sense of the given or reconstructed topography and program. It is also the product of many years of experience. In Taniguchi’s case the wall is quite abstract at an early, conceptual stage of design. A wall for Tadao Ando, by contrast, is a priori a concrete wall, and the design process must accommodate the characteristics that are unique to a concrete wall. Taniguchi, on the other hand, chooses what the wall ought to be like from the given conditions of the context. The qualities of the surface are determined from the required function, of course, but also from the available technology. Hence the porcelain tile of the House at Yukigaya and the Akita Municipal Library, the luster tile of the Shiseido Art Museum, the ribbed aluminum of the Higashiyama Kaii Gallery in Nagano, the glass of the Tokyo Kasai Rinkai Visitors’ Center, and the combination of translucent glass and slate of the Toyota Municipal Museum of Art. Only a highly abstract concept of the wall makes possible the variegated nature of their designs. Just as Mies exchanged the brick walls of the Brick Country House for marble in the Barcelona Pavilion, Taniguchi changes materials and structural systems. In the Visitors’ Center at Kasai Rinkai Park, the question was how to express a homogeneity of surface. From that question came the structural system, which determined the proportion of the members and the method of construction. I believe the question of whether or not the resulting arrangement of the window framing is “Japanese” or reminiscent of his father’s work is not very important. What is far more important is the fact that he gives priority to

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such a concept—that is, that he sets for himself a design problem, in this case the creation between the framing and the glass of a balanced, homogeneous quality. In situating a building on a given site, Taniguchi first determines to what extent that site can be converted into the new place he seeks to form, then takes steps accordingly. Next, through a dialogue between that newly born place and architecture, and using centrifugal and centripetal qualities as a vector, he creates individual spaces. As I have said, there is a constant shifting of the viewpoint in space. By means of this endless shifting of the center, architecture is made the aggregate of spatial—that is, visual—experiences. Such a method of design has long characterized the generation of traditional Japanese spaces. Taniguchi’s attempt to establish a new place might be called an attempt to establish za. Za is a traditional Japanese word-­concept indicating a seat or place for a thing, a personage, or an activity, and historically used in site planning; it was created to relate, in actual fact or on a symbolic plane, diverse heterogeneous elements existing within and without a certain domain. Various independent elements are enclosed, connected, supported, or subordinated by za.5 What most distinguishes Taniguchi’s architecture is the concept of za and the richness of the tour-­style spatial experience developed within that concept. Today, Japanese cities, both central districts and the suburbs, seem terribly impoverished by comparison to, say, European cities. Under these circumstances, the bold establishment of za, when it is successful, can be an effective stratagem. Za can also be said to be a means of actualizing the latent energy of a site that is at first glance impoverished and unattractive. Taniguchi has demonstrated that admirably in the Ken Domon Museum of Photography and the Toyota Municipal Museum of Art.

4.13 Kasai Rinkai Park Visitors’ Center, Tokyo, 1995, Taniguchi.

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At Tokyo Sea Life Park, the za he created is a water basin, which borrows the scenery of Tokyo Bay. There is both a centripetal force drawing the visitor toward the hexagonal glass tower and a centrifugal force extending from the water basin out toward the sea. From the brightly lit glass tower, the visitor descends into a dark space and, after diverse experiences, is presented in the restaurant with a place that is engaged in a dialogue with the shore. That is the story line that unfolds in this aquarium. The plinth (a word that is translated into Japanese as “raised za”) can be traced back to the Barcelona Pavilion, where Mies employed it in order to synthesize the design’s centrifugal and centripetal tendencies. In Barcelona, it was only by layering these elements—the plinth, the walls freely installed on top of the plinth, the columns that are independent of the walls, and the roof—while maintaining their separate identities, that Mies succeeded in creating this pavilion and giving expression to centrifugal and centripetal qualities. Here, the architecture transcends past historical patterns and has been assembled through a highly intellectualized process. Yet in other regional societies, similar architectural forms may already exist as part of historical tradition. Take, for example, the staggered floor plan that the Japanese liken to the formation of a flock of wild geese. It is a feature of the Japanese shoin-­style residence (of which the Katsura Detached Palace is a famous example) and is a means of giving the route leading from the vestibule to the inner chamber a strong diagonal axiality and depth. In Europe, such a staggered floor plan is found for the first time in the villa Schinkel designed for Prince Wilhelm, begun in 1835 in a suburb of Potsdam. This may be the first modernist work of European architecture as far as the floor

4.14 Tokyo Sea Life Park, 1989, Taniguchi.

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plan is concerned. The plan represents a rejection of symmetry and hierarchy of spatial units and an acceptance of the independence of elements. Equally important, however, was the architect’s intent to provide better views and lighting for more rooms. As Lewis Mumford pointed out in The Culture of Cities, the pursuit of pleasure by the privileged classes gave birth to the planning approach on which modernism is based.6 Here is a form that was employed in a world that valued sensibility, and in that world, the meaning that the form once possessed eventually disappeared. In a culture that, by contrast, sprang from reason and was hostile to sensibility, the rationale for that form was continually questioned. In examining these diverse historical phenomena, something fundamental about Taniguchi’s architecture gradually emerges. It takes as its starting point the abstract, figurative ideas embraced by Schinkel and Mies, but in the process of actualizing them in spatial compositions, he demonstrates a traditional Japanese sensibility. A strong interest in materials and materiality must also be taken into account in understanding Taniguchi’s architecture. Since beginning his practice in the mid-­1970s, he has shown the same concern and curiosity toward tile, metals, stone, and glass. He has revealed how materials can create a world that is at times stoic and at other times hedonistic. By “hedonistic” I am not, of course, referring to that excessive, hodgepodge quality associated with postmodernism. To understand Taniguch’s interest in materials, it may be helpful to return once more to Mies’s Barcelona Pavilion. I happened to visit the reconstructed Barcelona Pavilion late in the fall of 1994. It was early afternoon on a clear day, and the strong sunlight endowed the elegant structure with a particularly crisp, ­sharp-­edged quality. From the east, the pavilion

4.15 Karl Friedrich Schinkel’s design for a villa for Crown Prince Wilhelm in Potsdam, 1833.

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was more extended longitudinally—perhaps I ought to say more imposing—than I had imagined. What was most impressive, however, was the materiality of the travertine that covered the plinth and the external walls. As the document concerning the reconstruction explains in detail, the matter over which Mies took the greatest pains in designing this building was the selection of the three varieties of marble, including the travertine, and the technical problems of their construction. It goes without saying that those who were in charge of the reconstruction were fully aware of the care Mies had taken, and took ample time and care in searching for and assembling marble that was close to the original. As a result, the structure, though a reconstruction, provides the same rich visual and tactile experience as the original pavilion. On closer examination, it becomes apparent that the impression of richness is not simply the effect of the color or texture of the travertine. For example, travertine is lavishly used in Lincoln Center in New York, but the stone there has none of the sensuous quality of the stone in the Barcelona Pavilion. In Barcelona, the large units of marble, each measuring 2.2 meters wide and 1.1 meters high, and the geometrical rigor with which the units were treated, revealed to the world of the time an entirely new modernity. More than half a century later, even in a reconstructed state, the pavilion still creates in us a powerful impression. The report describes how, in the construction of the original pavilion, endless adjustments were made, such as shifting the dimensions of the floor marble by a few millimeters so as to match the joints created by the 2.2‑by-­1.1‑meter marble units on the walls. Such accounts show that Mies considered the large travertine panels to be the thing that was to breathe life into the pavilion.7 From time to time, Taniguchi and I discuss the design aspects of architecture. I recall how on one occasion he declared that when a project had an ample

4.16

Barcelona Pavilion interior.

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budget, he was interested in using bigger units of materials. Like Mies, he is no doubt aware that in a large, thoroughly minimalist building—for example, the Toyota Museum—the richness of form is heavily dependent on the materiality of the outer skin. Such an interest is apparent in his treatment of the Vermont slate used throughout this museum and of translucent glass, which has been used before, in his museum for Marugame. This slate is employed in the United States and Canada in small units as roofing material. To assemble units of the size, volume, and uniform quality found in the Toyota Museum, Taniguchi began with extensive research on currently available slate throughout the world, and it required much labor and expense to select, gather, work, finish, and construct. Yet he showed a craftsmanly passion for all such processes, and spared no effort. A material acquires materiality only through the cumulative effect of labor, passion, detail, and method of construction. The simpler the effect sought, the more complex the process can become. If one examines the psychological factors at work, one comes to realize that stoicism and hedonism are in fact opposite sides of the same coin. As I said above, Taniguchi’s interest in the Tokyo Kasai Rinkai Visitors’ Center lay in the structural sash that forms the cage. Flat-­rolled steel is used. As Toshihiko Kimura, the structural engineer for the project, explains, the excess welding material that protruded where the flat bars are joined was removed with a grinder. A staggering number of joints were each finished by hand. Such scrupulously performed tasks in the end account for the power of Taniguchi’s architecture. There is certainly little about his work that is formally spectacular in the ways that were in fashion in the 1990s. Yet at the Toyota Museum, with its translucent glass, dark green Vermont slate, and pale silver canopy of honeycombed aluminum, the combination of different materials, colors, and textures creates an indelible impression on all who experience it. What, then, of the social value of Taniguchi’s architecture? In the essay “Concerning Design” from which I quoted above, Taniguchi recalls the time he spent in Kenzo Tange’s office Urtec after his experience at Harvard. There, he had opportunities not only to work on redevelopment projects for Skopje and San Francisco but also to come into contact with the old, traditional cities of Europe and the history behind their cityscapes. He discusses the radical changes Japanese cities were undergoing in the early 1970s, when he opened his own office, and how he gradually came to the conclusion that the optimistic view he had developed at

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the university—that is, the belief in the solidarity of architecture and the city— was not applicable, at least to Japan, as long as the urban environment was being constructed for the sake of consumption. According to him, he had no choice but to create a microcosm or to express his own ideal urban image by his work amid the confused environment. This helps to explain the process by which he arrived at the abovementioned concept of the pavilion and the court, and the method he adopted that makes use of the concept of za and tour-­style space. In his case, skepticism about the city led to the creation of self-­sufficient worlds. How to construct the boundary between the outside and his own world then becomes an important issue. If one looks at his projects, the works that are situated in the countryside or in an extensive natural environment are notable for the superb ways in which this boundary is established. The problem occurs when the given environment is in the middle of a city, or where there is insufficient space for creating a boundary. To put it another way: a problem is apt to occur when the boundary coincides with the surface of the building. Let us look at his work in Marugame—a small city of 70,000 in Shikoku that does not offer a substantive historical context. Here Taniguchi was commissioned to design an art museum housing a permanent exhibit of works by the late Gen’ichiro Inokuma, a well-­known Japanese artist born in Marugame. The museum site faces to the south an open space in front of a railway station. Taniguchi first created a large overhang and composed an elevation featuring a tile mural by the artist. Then, next to a low-­key entrance at ground level, he introduced a public “mall” that gradually steps up along the length of the site’s southern edge. The interior spaces of the art museum proper, and all the separate spaces of the library, café, and auditorium, are skillfully brought together into a visual and physical relationship by means of the mall. This is probably one of the masterpieces of his œuvre. Yet at the same time, this large mass seems to maintain an aloof silence even though it is situated in front of the railway station, arguably the most important place in the small city of Marugame. This is particularly true of the north and west sides of the building, where there are no entrances and the building envelope is completely inanimate. The building surface is again inanimate, albeit in a different way, in the Junior and Senior High School on the Keio ­Shonan-­Fujisawa Campus he and I did together. I do not think that his stratagem—to create within the limited site given to him on the campus a self-­sufficient domain based on an ­inward-­looking

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court—was wrong. However, I often have occasion to visit the campus, and very little of what transpires inside—the activities of several hundred students—is communicated by the outer surface of the buildings or the gate that is the sole point of contact with the outside world. Harvard Yard, which he and I know quite well, is a closed domain surrounded by a wall, yet through the several gates in the wall, one can always get a sense of what is going on in the Yard. In the case of Keio, perhaps one reason that so little is transmitted outside is that people can come and go in those buildings through interior passages, without passing through the court onto which the gate opens. Like the museum in Marugame, the high school for Keio has superb interior spaces that have a warm, humane quality, and one understands that Taniguchi limits the openings made in the exterior building envelope in order to heighten the effects of views from the inside. Yet this, too, seems a consequence of the distrust he has come to feel for the city. In the Kasai Rinkai Visitors’ Center Taniguchi suggests, by means of a transparent cage that offers the sharpest possible contrast to such a closed schema, a relationship between the inside and the outside, and between the self and others. In this building, one can see the movement of people through a curtain wall that is as delicate as a reed blind. The sight of people gathering, dispersing, and generally moving about is itself an expressive aspect of the architecture. If his intention is to provide contrast to the aquarium several hundred meters away, where the sight of fish moving about is the attraction, by here showcasing human movement, one must say it is a very witty idea. In the evening, the movement of people behind the transparent glass takes on the air of fantasy, like a scene out of a film by Fellini. The themes I have discussed are tied to the issue of public character in contemporary architecture. In old historic cities, there were established norms, and all the architect had to do was to abide by those norms. Such standards do not exist in the contemporary city or countryside, and I believe the architect himself must create and express them on his own initiative. That, too, is a theme that tests the architect’s imagination. Over the years, Taniguchi has designed important buildings such as art museums, libraries, and an aquarium, yet his output has been by no means large. With a small office that has always had a staff of around ten, he has created his works with a consistency of idea and approach, not only planning, designing, and supervising the construction, but at times designing the landscaping and the graphics. As the locations of the works suggest, many projects were by no means convenient for

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an office based in Tokyo. Nevertheless, he has always believed in working on the spot every step of the way. That is, he has committed himself to the completion of every stage of the process, down to the design of the smallest detail. In this, Shinsuke Takamiya, who was his partner during the early atelier days, and who has continued to be his ­r ight-­hand man, has consistently contributed to the high quality of the design produced by the office. Taniguchi’s craftsmanly attitude is something that comes naturally to him. For him, design is a labor of love. To that extent he has always tried to minimize interference and demands made on him by the media, cutting down as much as possible on activities such as lecturing, participating in symposia, writing, exhibiting, and serving on juries. His attitude has always been that his designs say all there is for him to say. Certainly such activities contribute to the formation of a broader architectural culture, one that meets the demands of today’s society, but seeing the excessive demands made on architects and the way their words are simply consumed daily by the media, one cannot help but respect Taniguchi’s attitude. The landscape designer Peter Walker, who has collaborated with him on several projects including the Toyota Museum, has this to say about Taniguchi: “Taniguchi is one of the few architects practicing what Luis Barragán preached, namely the idea that the greatest quality architecture can possess is stillness.” Stillness does indeed characterize not only the spaces he creates, but his daily actions and speech. I recall recently hearing some young European architects saying that there was nothing in the ideas and designs of Le Corbusier or Mies to interest them. Certainly, to be ­avant-­garde is to reject the past. Yet architectural culture as a whole should not be thought of as some kind of rocket aimed toward the future with the ­avant-­garde serving as the warhead. Instead the culture of architecture can be likened to the movement of waves on a great sea. The different waves collide and interfere with one another, with some disappearing and others merging to form a bigger wave. Every day we, too, experience and participate in the several waves that began in the early years of the twentieth century. I believe that the architecture of Yoshio Taniguchi can be seen as an attempt to reconsider, from a Japanese standpoint, one of the most fundamental of those waves, and to create from that the best possible work.

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O n t h e I n d u st r i a l Verna cula r

The end of modernism was pronounced by an increasing number of observers from the 1970s on. In truth, modern architecture in the 1960s had taken on a doctrinaire character, as architectural expression became more neutral, space more uniform, building forms more monotonous, and contemporary cities more disorderly and confused than cities of the past. However, the seemingly disorderly cities of today—especially townscapes such as Tokyo’s that have been created from scratch since World War II almost solely by modern architectural methods—are gradually nurturing a new urban sensibility. In his essay “The Reality of the City,” Yuzuru Tominaga defines the enormous assemblage of man-­made objects and the kaleidoscopic phenomenon of the city as “second nature”: Even if Venturi is entirely justified in criticizing the norms of modern architecture, we must not lose sight of the fact that they are supportive as well as restrictive. They shape the places we live in and provide a yardstick for our very perceptions. That is key. Diversifying those norms, expanding the range of architectural expression—that is, transforming those norms into something more in line with the reality of contemporary urban life—is the way to make architectural expression more responsive to society. The works of architecture of the early part of this century are still attractive to us because we can retrace our steps through them and get a sense of the actual human perceptions and dreams, fragmentary to be sure but also vital and pure, that gave them birth.1

The existence of such an urban consciousness has been actively discussed not only by architects but also by critics in Japan. The fact that the various icons of modernist architecture—first encountered or experienced in the early part of the twentieth century—still seem fresh today is not unrelated to the condition in which cities are found today. Yet the relationship between industrialized society and modernism is today in an entirely different phase compared to the nineteenth or early twentieth century, when modernism was just emerging. For one thing, not only is our contemporary city overwhelmingly composed of industrialized man-­made objects, but some of those objects have already acquired a historical character and are beginning to transmit new meaning. That is to say, the products of modernism in the early twentieth century always communicated newness and a sense of the future, but the same objects today also evoke, at times, nostalgia and a sense of the past. Secondly, it is no longer possible to make blanket statements about industrialized society, so differentiated and diversified has it become in the world. The European type of industrialized society is only one manifestation; around the world today, there are many different modes of industrialized society, depending on the stage of industrialization and the existence and strength of a traditional regional culture. The International Style, one of the styles to which modernism gave birth, was introduced in the 1920s and 1930s, when industrialization was as yet undifferentiated, and that was why people in different parts of the world saw in it a common drama and appeal. The International Style was about a common sensibility that transcended borders, but because it was a phenomenon, it soon lost its freshness. The fact that industrialized society or modernism cannot give rise to any single common phenomenon means that every thesis must be posed with respect to a specific region: for example, the United States or Japan. Japan has developed into an industrialized society extremely rapidly, but it also has a vital and distinctive culture. Its traditional architecture, however, does not have a physical presence powerful enough to form and to regulate the cores of cities as its counterparts do in Europe and the United States. A region such as this is bound to have a unique industrialized urban image of its own. If an architectural vernacular is the product of various external conditions, one that does not conform to any single form in the manner of classicism, then a sensibility already exists in the industrialized societies of certain countries for creating what can be called an industrial vernacular. Yet whereas the vernacular of

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the past exists as a set of stable forms, steadfastly transmitting historical memory, the images of an industrial vernacular are far more unstable and transitory, and in them the past and the future intersect. Nevertheless, that presence is what Tominaga calls “the reality of the city.” In Tokyo, when one travels by car from Haneda in the direction of Chiba and Narita by way of the waterfront expressway, one sees to the left factories and high-­r ise apartments on vast tracts of reclaimed land. The silhouettes of these examples of industrial vernacular seem to express in their ­matter-­of‑factness a certain lightness. The concrete, metals, and slate that are the principal elements of the industrial vernacular in Japanese cities are seen through the greenery that is always found scattered around them, and have an impure, adulterated quality. Billboards, vending machines, and various works of urban infrastructure all form a part of the surface of the Japanese city. The new industrial vernacular of glass, plastic, concrete, and metal communicates to us in our everyday urban life through unique tactile qualities. In a city such as Tokyo that is filled mostly with buildings constructed since World War II, one seeks not the order of classical forms but a new aesthetic order of fluctuation, glimmer, flow, and lightness. In 1985, I had an opportunity to visit the skyscraper district on the west side of Shinjuku for the first time in quite a while. Dusk was falling, and as I was walking along a tree-­lined promenade and looking up at the lights beginning to go on in the tall buildings that stood against the dark blue autumnal sky, it struck me that this was a new kind of city, unlike New York, Houston, or even Tokyo’s older business district, the Marunouchi area. Shinjuku’s skyscrapers were as strange a collection of structures as the gates to daimyo estates that once surrounded Edo Castle must have been. Whatever the quality of their individual designs, these buildings were virtually

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all straightforward products of modernism. The superblocks into which the district was divided were very strange, and I was among the many who had originally criticized them. By the standard of older cities, in which a recognizable relationship between figure and ground establishes a clear order, the district was incomprehensible. Yet a “town” of sorts was undeniably developing in West Shinjuku, and a new process of urban formation distinctive to modern Japan could be detected. In old European cities, the center and the periphery formed a silhouette similar to Mount Fuji’s; a concentric core structure had been the model of order for both cities and architecture. Public buildings were always representational, but private buildings were not—instead, they were products of the vernacular. The urbanized areas in Tokyo formed since the war, including Shinjuku, are a challenge to that order. Although it exists only in fragments, a new order is already perceptible. Here each part of the city is like an autonomous robot that creates its own internal order and self-­propagates within a domain under its control. Within this domain, planners, architects, and investors merely introduce variations within a strictly limited scope of possibility, while the system itself works to quietly and steadily create the new city. The ­machine-­age, utopian order envisioned by architects and planners of the early twentieth century has disintegrated, and the megastructuralization of the city envisioned at midcentury is also in rapid decline. Under these circumstances, the emergence of autonomous, self-­propagating urban districts may mean that they will assume the main role in creating a new form of urban order. Such a hypothesis is by no means fantastic, given the history of Edo/​Tokyo. As can be seen in ukiyo‑e prints, the urban order of premodern Edo was established through the development, one after another, of a number of ­island-­like domains.

4.17 Shinjuku’s skyscrapers seen beyond the trees of Yoyogi Park.

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Ambiguity of boundaries was permitted. An order that objectified center and boundary was denied, and the organization of urban surfaces into either the representational or the vernacular was also rejected. Today, when European ideas of urban formation are unable to supply the new system of order demanded by industrialized urban society, creating islands or filling in and manipulating what is left over may be a stratagem that can respond more dynamically to the situation. An urban society such as Japan—where exterior spaces are necessarily limited in area and irregular in shape, and techniques of spatial perception such as ma and oku have traditionally existed—is perhaps better prepared to adapt flexibly to new demands through the formation of such a ­collage-­like urban order. 2 Modernism accorded greater importance to volume over mass and was more concerned with balance and flow than axiality and symmetry; ironically, its principles are being enforced more than ever through such urban formations as I have described above. Certainly, in today’s industrialized cities, there is no need to reject the existence of older buildings and building fabrics that evoke nostalgia; however, they are simply a part of the modern city and exist to provide contrast. They are tolerated as a part of a larger framework of order. Perhaps, as the architect Hidetoshi Ono suggests, we need to recognize that in urban societies that are oriented not toward the center but toward the periphery, this tradition has been effective in constructing countless places of different character.3 New horizons are opening up for architecture as well. First, there is a view that architecture will participate in the arrangement of the city as a single structure or as a group of buildings in a delimited area. It cannot be denied that modernism developed essentially as a form of positivism. That is why, of the many

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“isms” that grew out of modernism’s evolution, the International Style became the mainstream, pushing aside expressionist, empiricist, and decorative architecture. However, despite the fact that the International Style represented a liberation from past norms with an aesthetic founded on freedom, the movement began to demonstrate excessive faith in ­technology-­based notions of progress and, attaching moral values to this faith, to claim sole legitimacy as an approach to design. It was then that mainstream modernism began to disintegrate from within. As Alan Colquhoun has pointed out, despite the fact that architecture must possess both functionality and expressive character, the two aspects were frequently confused, with some believing that the expressive function was the essence of architecture—indeed, that architectural expression bore responsibility for solving actual functional problems.4 This confusion promoted the neutralization of surfaces and the increasing uniformity of space; that is why the representational character of space has again become an issue for architects. The autonomy of works of architecture as mechanisms for transmitting meaning does not apply simply to the messages conveyed by the surfaces of buildings. In urban arrangements, architecture eventually contains within itself its own city. In the new urban condition that can no longer be called a city in the classical sense—a condition in which the prevailing sensibility is that of the industrial vernacular—that sense of a quiet, ­inner-­directed order that once existed in the city is today formed inside individual buildings and building complexes. Buildings with public character today possess two different vectors: one directed outward in their capacity as transmission mechanisms, the other directed inward to form an internal order, and it does not matter whether a building is a commercial or public facility.

4.18 Yamato International Building, Tokyo, 1987, by Hiroshi Hara. 4.19 Tower of the Winds, Yokohama, 1986, by Toyo Ito.

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Galleries, passages, atriums, labyrinths, and scenically treated interior spaces are clearly expressions of a desire today for a private, inner city. Cities must not simply expose everything to view; they must satisfy the shared dream that somewhere within, an unexplored domain exists. That is what creates the next level of order in the contemporary city. Diverse worlds will undoubtedly unfold that respond to the ambivalent wishes of urbanites awakened to a new cosmic consciousness on the one hand and yearning to return to the womb on the other—torn between anxiety and joy. In the early 1970s, a special issue of Architectural Design was dedicated to an examination of the relationship between the “whole” and the “parts” from an interdisciplinary perspective that included the natural and social sciences as well as architecture. The discussion described a system of order in which there was a clear relationship between the parts and the whole (in the sense of the collection of those parts) metaphorically as a “clock,” while one in which the whole was maintained through the balance of unstable parts was described as a “cloud.” The contemporary significance for various fields of the two concepts of “clock” and “cloud” was then discussed. In explanations of works of architecture as products of their times, the sensibility or rhetoric of the times ultimately wears away or is rendered abstract over time, leaving only compositional principle as an intellectual product. As long as that belief exists somewhere, the compositional theme of “the whole and the parts” will continue to be explored. Today’s industrialized urban society is beginning to suggest the presence of an order different from that represented by the contrast of the countryside and the city in the past. The order suggested by images of the contemporary city is clearly that of a cloud, not of a clock. On the other hand, as a necessary background to leading an ordered, meaningful existence, people today still seek some clear order in the more readily comprehensible details of their urban environment. Might some method for governing the relationship in forms of architectural expression between sharply defined parts and a fluctuating, cloudlike whole still be found? Attempts by Hiroshi Hara to construct a “multilayered structure” in his architecture might be understood in such a context; Toyo Ito’s Silver Hut and Itsuko Hasegawa’s Bizan Hall are also products of such a sensibility. A schema in which ­clear-­cut, clocklike parts exist in a cloudlike whole is not a rejection of modernism but an indication of its further potential.

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Th e R o o f at F u j i sawa

It is a well-­known fact that Japan began to modernize rapidly after the Meiji Restoration. In the one hundred and twenty years that have passed since that restoration, Japan has developed into what is arguably the most industrialized nation in the world. In metropolises such as Tokyo and Osaka, traditional buildings that have survived natural disasters, fires, the war, and the effects of rapid modernization are very limited in number and scale. Old, preindustrial streetscapes that remain fully intact are virtually nonexistent. This trend toward industrialization will undoubtedly accelerate in the future, as the densities of these cities increase and, concomitantly, new construction continues to occur at a more rapid rate. Moreover, such rapid growth will be combined with increasingly stringent building codes intended to mitigate the destructive effects of natural disasters by way of particularly lightweight and sophisticated systems of construction. This is the situation in which the contemporary practitioner of architecture in Japan finds himself. In this sense, the evolution of the industrialized city and the emergence of modern architecture—from which contemporary architecture developed—must be seen as interrelated phenomena. The theoretical foundations of modernism— including references to mass production, trabeate construction, investigations in new and lightweight materials, free planning and functionalism—all suggest obvious comparisons to the world of industrialization. We have witnessed this expanding industrialization with some concern. The most extreme position insists that such industrialization will undermine our culture, fracture our relationship to history, and bring about the formation of a forbidding urban landscape without reference to place. The Western world has given voice

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to similar concerns. For an architect in such a predicament, a pressing question reveals itself: what is the role of history and place in this industrial city, and how does one contribute works of authenticity and resonance to such a landscape? Going south in Manhattan along the East River, one encounters a series of huge concrete and steel bridges. Their stone foundations have been exposed to the elements over many years and are coated with moss. They remind one of the ruins of Roman aqueducts and the world of Piranesi. The factories and the tall, expressionless apartment buildings standing nearby are also weathering products of an early industrialized society and appear before us as strangely reticent monuments of modern history. Cityscapes of this nature greet one in London and Manchester as well. In contrast to these examples of Western industrial vernacular that testify to the glories of a weighty past, the industrial vernacular of Japan has an entirely different aspect. The factories, high-­rise apartment buildings, and gas tanks that stand crowded together in the vast area reclaimed from Tokyo Bay that is visible from the expressway describe a world of abstract form. One can discern here a kind of lightness, a frail optimism that approaches lyricism. The past does not weigh down this cityscape as it does the cityscapes of the West, because here it is not allowed to accumulate. The human traces in this transitional landscape can be dated back only a few decades at the most. Features distinctive to Japan—everything from signs, vending machines, and plastic products to entire urban infrastructures—participate on an equal basis with cheaply constructed buildings in the formation of the surface of the city. If one looks closely enough, one can see in this surface composed of concrete, metals, glass, and plastic the layered, tactile quality that is distinctive to Japan. The aesthetic that this cityscape speaks of is one of fluctuation and fluidity. It is possible to recognize the existence of a unique perceptual order here. The phenomenon of the modern city cannot be understood as a manifestation of the industrial imperative alone. Notwithstanding the expectations of ­early-­twentieth-­century theoreticians—who foretold the development of our cities along models provided by this industrial revolution—it remains possible to identify significant distinctions between one modern city and another. The proportion of new construction to old, the persistence of local preferences, and the particular characteristics of a regional culture all contribute to this diversity. While it is true that modern frame construction must conform to laws of tectonics independent of the specifics of place, that particular quality of place still finds expression in our buildings.

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The Japanese variation derives primarily from a historical phenomenon. Japan has many strong traditions of craft, custom, dress, and family structure. We do not, however, possess an accumulated stock of traditional architecture around which our cities could be formed. In this sense, our traditions persist in the form of intangible as opposed to tangible structures. The imprint of Japanese culture on the industrialized city is felt not in the juxtaposition of old and new artifacts—as in Europe—but in the overlay of an entirely new architectural landscape on a very old culture. The integration of the two results in a very distinctive experience of the Japanese city. It is this experience, this persistent expression of culture, that must form the basis of a true modern vernacular. The design and construction of individual buildings capable of speaking to both the traditional past and industrial future of Japan depends on a sensitivity to this historical fact. The challenge facing the architect today is to understand and contribute to this integration of intangible traditions with tangible artifacts—to link together the historical character of our culture with the development of a built urban landscape which cannot literally re‑create its own history. Such a challenge involves the investigation of industrial artifacts with an eye for their more evocative natures, searching among them for a specific character related to regional tradition.

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This search for a meaningful integration of the past with the future has dominated my thinking in recent years. Much of my work has been undertaken in pursuit of this integration. For an architect committed to building, this investigation is deeply involved in formal and technical matters of construction, such that the entire issue becomes manifest in their resolution. As can be seen in the battered and monolithic stone constructions of England’s industrial past, or the lightweight and luminous assemblies scattered along the edge of Tokyo Bay, these issues related to place and character may be deciphered in essentially physical terms. For this reason, I believe it to be critical to the design process that one constantly reference the material nature of one’s proposals to both their historical and geographic context. The study of primary architectonic elements—the foundation, walls, columns, and, perhaps of most importance here, the roof—related to any particular construction must be undertaken with a sensitivity to the material history of that element, to ensure that this architecture may speak to more than its own occurrence. The capacity of a single architectural element to possess this dialectic was made clear to me in the conception of the roof for the Fujisawa Sports Complex. In fact, the stainless steel roof to be seen here has a complex history of its own, intimately tied up with the specifics of its coming into being—its technical and formal inception along with its actual production in the field. It is necessary to discuss this technical history at some length in order to communicate the intention of the roof as a cultural artifact, as a constructed artifact that stands in a complex relationship to history. In this way I believe it is possible to see the roof itself as a metaphor for the coming together of two traditions. Fujisawa is a city located very close to the seashore, about thirty kilometers from Tokyo. The landscape of this area is, in fact, quite bleak. The particular site chosen for the new sports complex lacked any distinguishing characteristics of its own and remains surrounded for the most part by smaller structures arranged in a loosely defined configuration. The introduction of a very large structure of the scale required by the program assured that the new building would assume a strong presence in the city. We recognized early on that the successful accommodation of this program would necessitate the construction of two very large rooms, each of which would have a definition and a nature of its own. Given our experience with this particular building type, we understood the critical issues of scale that such constructions inevitably present. We also knew that the roof itself would

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4.22 Aerial view of Fujisawa Gymnasium.

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most profoundly influence this eventual reading of scale. The manner in which this roof was conceived and developed would be crucial to the final character of the building. Several considerations led us to choose stainless steel as the primary material for this roof. Many of these considerations had to do with specific physical characteristics of the steel itself: its great resistance to the degenerative effects of salt air, its considerable luminosity, its capacity to be shaped and bent into fairly complex segments, and certain inherent qualities of scale suggested by its extreme thinness and fragility. We regarded each of these characteristics as advantageous to the formal and technical ordering of the roof. Their cumulative effect was to provide a point of departure of considerable rigor, a set of limitations demanding precise calculation, and considerable investigation of relevant construction procedures. We determined through our investigation that each steel sheet would be limited to 40 centimeters in width and only 0.4 millimeters in thickness, a thickness of such fragility and susceptibility to creasing and wrinkling that extraordinary measures would be required in its manipulation. Such thin sheet steel would not be capable of maintaining an even surface in the life of the building—nor, for that matter, during construction, when particularly extreme concentrated stresses would be exerted on each sheet in its transportation and manipulation. When seen against the sunlight, these inevitable imperfections would become particularly apparent. Working with the manufacturer, we were able to devise a method for producing systematic wrinkles in each sheet in such a way that these deformations would appear uniform and intentional, providing a certain texture to the roof and allowing another scale reading to be manifest in the surface itself. This texture might then speak of the nature of steel in the same way that grain speaks of wood, or the visible composition of minerals speaks of stone. The manner in which these steel sheets might be fabricated and joined was studied carefully so as to avoid a repetitive or mechanistic assembly or, conversely, a homogeneous, ­membrane-­like appearance that might belie the building’s truly assembled nature. To this extent, we wanted very much to avoid the “inflated” quality that such large structures commonly suffer. Through many attempts in model, we were able to determine a configuration of individually fabricated segments that collectively achieved the desired whole, while maintaining the integrity of the part. Each of these steel sheets was in itself quite unique. Rather than

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accept a repetitive subdivision of the roof by way of highly complex, curved segmentation—which, we learned, would be quite difficult to manufacture— we made liberal use of trapezoidal segments, requiring certain adjustments to be made at critical points in each sheet. Many of these adjustments had to be modified—even conceived—at the construction site itself. Several members of the design team were present at the site throughout construction to supervise this ongoing process of study and correction. In fact, it was necessary to set up a small office at the site where the design team could work, maintaining day-­to‑day contact with the builders—even assisting in the construction itself—to ensure that each connection and each detail was executed correctly. In an effort to make apparent the hovering quality of the roof—to disassociate it from the more massive base of its support—we developed a series of pin connections where the meeting of these two elements could be poignantly accomplished. Such a meeting further reinforced the apparent lightness of the roof, allowing it to maintain an identity of its own that speaks of an almost ethereal presence. Through the development of these pin connections we were able, as well, to underline the assembled nature of the ­steel-­clad roof structure, reinforcing once again our ambition not to fall victim to that inflated appearance so contrary to the proper definition of scale. The reality or the spirit of the steel itself seemed to us to be very much tied up with its sharpness, its precision, its capacity to define an unequivocal edge. This was always on our minds as we studied each corner and intersection, and particularly as we explored the termination of the roof near its base. But such luminous metal has another evocation as well: I have observed that at certain times of day—in a very particular light—this luminous steel virtually disappears into the sky, suggesting an aura not unlike that of the sun during an eclipse. Its reflection of such bright light is so complete as to wholly absorb the material itself in the act of reflection. This is its paradox and its mystery. These facts are important insofar as they document the coming together of a traditional procedure of construction with the development of a new and highly sophisticated building material. In a strict sense, the manner in which the Fujisawa Sports Complex was built cannot be considered innovative. Many of the procedures we evolved here might even be considered medieval. The building was constructed with the active participation of an attendant workforce; a supervisory team responsible for both the conception and execution of detail was present at

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the site at all times; and the work being performed was of a singular and unique nature. This was not a building composed of repetitive elements, mechanically produced in great quantities for use in buildings other than Fujisawa itself. Accordingly, the complex speaks of a fundamentally traditional reality. Its character is determined by the piecing together of carefully crafted, individual components in a complex assembly not unlike its Japanese predecessors. It is here that the intangible traditions of craft and method referred to earlier exert themselves on the production of otherwise entirely modern artifacts. Such a reading, however, is inevitably challenged by our sense of its definitively unique character, as well as by its relationship to modern industrial construction. We see in the formal language of the building—in its scale and in the precise fabrication of elements that compose it—a type of construction that is not familiar to us through the traditional world of handcrafted production. Despite its connection to that past, it cannot be wholly explained by or absorbed in it. A similar and intended ambiguity exists in the associative qualities of the sheathing itself. What does this metal roof mean? Of course, we cannot speak of this with any precision. Stainless steel has many associations with both an industrial and a traditional reality. It is a material of hardness, precision, strength, and great reflectivity, thereby making reference to a future populated by the artifacts of an advanced science. But it also recalls the tools and equipment of an earlier time, a world of medieval helmets and weaponry, of artifacts from an iron age marked by a great fascination with such metals. This luminous steel thereby shares a past with a future—a complex relationship to time and place alongside an insistent industrial character—intended to assure it a vital history. Tokyo has undergone many changes in physical appearance over the last century. The city, so decimated by World War II, has had to rebuild from ashes. In its rebuilding it has become—perhaps it has returned to being—a city without heaviness. It was once a city of wood and paper; it has now become a city of concrete, steel, and glass. The feeling of lightness, however, remains. We might now return to the notion of specificity of place that introduced this essay. The sports complex at Fujisawa represents an attempt to address this problem by way of a set of material and constructive considerations guided, in turn, by an image of place and a sense of history, such that the eventual building

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demonstrates an unequivocal geographic inevitability. Paradoxically, it has been necessary to allow the building an ambiguous relationship to history—to both the past and the future—in an effort to define this specific connection to place. The temporal associations possible in any interpretation of this building, therefore, are manifold and complex, while it remains our intention that its geographic relationship be without ambiguity. In this way, Fujisawa might speak to a specific regional history—to the lightness and architectonic precision of its constructive legacy—as it is intrinsically tied to that region. In short, we wish the building to be free in time so as to be fixed in place. The suggestion of a modern or industrial vernacular of rigorous architectural character might be found in this process. This has certainly been our struggle. If the metal roof at Fujisawa finds an evocative place among the industrial artifacts of its milieu, making explicit the ambitions of a culture in search of a more resonant architecture, we will have successfully catalyzed an investigation critical to the Japanese future.

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O n U n i v e r sa l i t y

We tend to downplay our direct, natural response to architecture. To understand an architectural form or space, we normally examine it in the context of its time, place, and culture. Moreover, diverse programmatic demands are made on architecture today, and the fulfillment of such requirements is apt to be the first thing we consider in evaluating a work. We therefore neglect the emotions stirred by an encounter with a building or its spaces. Human beings evolved several hundred million years ago, but basic instinctive responses that animals have to stimuli such as spaces are still built into our genetic makeup. We have all had the childhood experience of being caught up in an exciting game of hide-­and-­seek. The geographer Jay Appleton has written that wild animals instinctively have recourse to what he calls “prospect and refuge,” which allow them to see others without being seen themselves.1 He demonstrates that space plays an important role in defensive and aggressive behavior among animals. Hide-­and-­seek is thrilling to children precisely because it arouses a similar instinct. Watch young children and dogs at play on a field, and it becomes obvious that children at an early stage of growth, unaffected as yet by social and cultural conventions, are not very different from animals in their behavior. The joys and fears all children share are universal and transcend cultural differences, and the perceptions and sensibilities we consider universal turn out to have primordial roots. Psychologists have identified numerous types of phobia. It is interesting that many of these irrational fears, known since ancient times, have to do with space— for example, fear of heights, fear of small enclosed spaces, and fear of the dark. As human beings formed communities, myths and religions developed to promote the survival and the influence of particular groups or peoples. Human

beings began to create or select spaces and forms. Stonehenge in the south of England was a symbolic place of sun worship and also a setting for confirming communal solidarity among the members of the group; the architectural historian Spiro Kostof has gone so far as to describe it as one of the oldest public spaces of mankind.2 The shapes and figures first used by mankind were taken from forms common in the natural world. The Thai architect Sumet Jumsai has written in his book Naga: Cultural Origins in Siam and the West Pacific that the countless islands and land masses into which that part of Asia was torn by repeated ice ages several million years ago have made water an integral part of everyday life and survival for people of the region.3 No other region in the world has so many symbols associated with water in its religions, legends, and works of art, architecture, literature, and dance. For example, symbols of waves are found in countless architectural ornaments and New Year dragon dances. Of course, the proliferation of such symbols is accounted for in part by cultural influences, but the images are nevertheless reflections of basic, subconscious concerns and desires among the people of Asia since ancient times. Forms and spaces that have long been dormant in the subconscious still have the capacity to evoke our emotions today. In the natural world, there are dynamic forms such as waves and whirlpools and quite abstract forms such as spheres, circles, and horizons. Perhaps certain forms move us because they reawaken ancient memories locked in our DNA. From around 1940, Le Corbusier gradually abandoned the world of abstraction and entered a world of what he called l’espace indicible (ineffable space). His subsequent projects were characterized by an almost archaic sensibility. The universality possessed by a great work may in fact be evidence of a sensibility attuned to the cosmos. Universality in architecture is apt to be confused with uniformity. The confusion began when the term “International Style” was used to lump together buildings that were made superficially similar in form by the abstract approach of modernism. A work is universal if it transcends regional or stylistic differences and is able to evoke an emotional response. At times a building can seem specific to a region or an era but still shed light on something more universal. I have recently encountered two such works.

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One is the cavelike exhibition space called the ­Husain-­Doshi Gufa in Ahmedabad, India, designed by the architect Balkrishna Doshi. On the outside, it suggests a strange beast with the head of a cobra and the shell of a tortoise. The structure is in fact composed of spheres and spherical fragments of different diameters. Inside, a veritable forest of columns supports the undulating roof, and the skylights suggest fragments of the sky glimpsed between treetops. The Gufa evokes diverse images and metaphors. The more diverse the imagery evoked by a form, the greater is the form’s universality. The other work is a community center called SESC-­Pompéia Factory in São Paulo, designed by Lina Bo Bardi (1914–­1992) toward the end of her career. This is a remodeling of an old factory, to which a new five-­story sports facility has been added. The appeal of the building is difficult to explain, but the work evokes powerful images. The architect stated that she wanted to create a building that was as ugly as possible. I feel, however, that the work transcends the specifics of place and achieves a certain universality. The two towering masses linked by scissorlike corridors resemble trees whose outstretched branches commingle. The form is strange, but it moves us, perhaps by offering us a glimpse of something in our subconscious. As I peered down at the city of São Paulo through a window which was roughly in the shape of a flower petal in the concrete wall, I suddenly recalled Appleton’s phrase “prospect and refuge.” The architect intended these openings—used for ventilation—to be holes gouged in the concrete, and in a way they are like the mouths of caves. In 1995 my office designed a floating theater for the city planning bureau of Groningen, a city of canals in the north of the Netherlands that once belonged to the Hanseatic League. The theater is used for musical performances and poetry

4.28 Interior of the ­ usain-­Doshi Gufa art H gallery, Ahmedabad, India, 1993, by Balkrishna Doshi.

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readings, and is moved from place to place on the canals during the local summer festival. It can also be steered next to a plaza, in which case the entire boat is made into a stage for plays or events. In accepting the commission to design this pavilion, built on top of a concrete barge six meters wide and ­twenty-­five meters long, we promised to create something that our clients had never seen before. What we meant by this was that we thought the pavilion, which travels between districts and among countless boats, ought to have its own identity and be neither a building nor a boat. The form—or space—we arrived at after long study is a sail-­like pavilion organized around two different spirals. The steel frame was assembled in a shipbuilding yard in Groningen, and the curious form attracted public attention even during construction. The pavilion, nicknamed “A Star Is Born,” made its appearance on the opening day of the festival and was used throughout the summer by the citizens. This floating theater evokes diverse images, and unexpected encounters can produce surrealistic effects. The cloudlike pavilion moving through a misty countryside might suddenly find itself among sheep and swans. Against the background of a deep forest, the pavilion itself can take on the semblance of a swan. At other times it can suggest an alien being or a snail. Unlike a fixed building, this pavilion changes location and, in so doing, evokes different images and transforms the image of a place. These three works have several things in common. The forms evoke diverse images, and those images, though at times strange and mysterious, can take on the friendly, benign appearance of certain animals. These images are apparent to children as well as adults and do not require expert knowledge to be recognized. Moreover, the forms do not by any means restrict or express the function of the enveloped spaces.

4.29 Lina Bo Bardi’s 1977 design transformed the SESC-­Pompéia factory in São Paulo, Brazil, into a popular community and recreation center. 4.30 Framed view of São Paulo from Bo Bardi’s recreation center.

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The three works are completely different in region, scale, form, and material; yet they all have the quality of universality. Moreover, their universality does not prevent them from being regional as well. It is possible for a work to be both universal and regional. The towers of SESC might conceivably be moved to India, or the Gufa to a farming village in Japan, without seeming anomalous. This seems to argue the existence in ancient times of primary spaces or forms, which were only later modified in ways specific to regions and cultures. Today, architecture exhibits great diversity, but we ought not to forget the primordial foundation on which that diversity rests. I believe it is an appropriate time, as the new century emerges, to engage in a more active debate on the important issue of universality in architecture.

4.31 Floating Pavilion in Groningen, Holland, 1995. 4.32 Floating Pavilion passing through the Dutch landscape.

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Arc h i t e c t u r a l M odernit y and t he Consciousness Called the Pr esent

I have in front of me a secondhand book entitled The New Architecture. Like Le Corbusier’s Œeuvre complète, this book, first published in 1940, was a much­thumbed bible for those of us who were architecture students in the postwar era. It contains twenty works by architects active in the 1930s, beginning with works by Le Corbusier and Alvar Aalto and including Junzo Sakakura’s Japan Pavilion for the 1937 Paris Exhibition. Recently I had a sudden urge to look through this book once more and immediately ordered it from Amazon. The book arrived a week later. Not including shipping charges, the cost was only ¥ 1,500 (around $12). In all likelihood it would have been difficult to come by had I scoured all the secondhand bookstores in Europe. The author, Alfred Roth, was a well-­known Swiss architect who had worked at Le Corbusier’s atelier in Paris during the same period as Kunio Maekawa. In the introduction, he characterized modernism in a way that struck me as strongly today as it had a half-­century ago: Apart from the enormous innovations in technics and the change in social conditions, the awakening of the consciousness of one’s own times stands in the foreground. The New Architecture in its present form is the immediate and clear expression of the meantime expanded consciousness of the times we live in.1

The Mexican poet Octavio Paz once described modernity as an expression by each individual of how he intends to live his own “present.”2 If that is so, then there are a thousand modernisms for every thousand persons, and in this century

modernism will no doubt continue to be the mode by which we express the present in which we live. My own consciousness of the present over the past ­fifty-­plus years might be divided into several periods. The first period—from the end of the war into the era of intensive economic growth—was the period of my youth, when I was full of confidence that tomorrow would always be better than today. However, the student protests that began with the May Revolution in Paris in 1968 and the oil crisis of the early 1970s undermined that optimism, and gave rise to a consciousness of anxiety that would thereafter remain a part of my present. Franz Kafka once said that anxiety lies at the core of existence.3 Despite its generally negative connotations, anxiety can also motivate change and provide opportunities for growth. Throughout the world, in both urban and rural settings, the social and physical foundations on which works of architecture had been conceived throughout history has been lost. Place can no longer dictate the way architecture ought to be. The environment in that sense no longer exists a priori, but that also means that the architect can now construct a new landscape through his imagination. As I began my practice, I already felt an infinite love for the city, the generator and foundation of architecture. I felt that if I were allowed to design a building, it did not matter if it were in a beautiful townscape or at the back of some abandoned switchyard. Whether the place was old or new, beautiful or ugly, was frankly beside the point. My dream was—and still is—to enter into a dialogue with that corner of the city that would be the scene of my operations, the subject of my thoughts, and the place where I must actually build something. Young architects today no doubt think the same way. Anxiety awakens a desire to create something certain in architecture. It encourages us to attempt to create something lasting that cannot be entirely consumed, even in a mass consumer society like ours, using materials and technologies available to us today. The third period of my present might have begun around 1990, brought about by the tearing down of the Berlin Wall, which was synonymous with tearing down restrictions on the flow of capital, information, and desire on a worldwide scale. The disappearance of the Soviet Union made inevitable the transformation of China into a capitalist state. That this period coincided with a revolution in information technology was pure happenstance, yet the coincidence is also important. It was also around this time that we introduced computers into design. The spatial and temporal dimensions of our world expanded all at once. The buildings

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we currently create in Japan are hybrids of materials and products from around the world; the design process, too, is undergoing an international division of labor. The concentration of capital is giving rise to ­strange-­shaped cities such as Dubai; we no longer consider it strange that Spanish ­Colonial-­style houses have become wildly popular in a suburb of Tokyo. The excessive liquidity of capital solely in search of profit is behind such phenomena. Under such circumstances, how is the present now perceived? The term ambivalence refers to a psychological state in which a person has two mutually contradictory feelings toward a subject. The accelerating increase of information and phenomena to be experienced and processed is generating hitherto unanticipated ambivalent relationships at diverse levels in our world. Our world must reconcile increasingly disparate and contradictory trends such as globalization and locality, technological progress and ecological equilibrium. These circumstances are calling into question the nature of architectural design. In the past half-­century, I have experienced a consciousness filled with such desires, anxieties, and contradictions. In reality, these presents—these states of mind, these awarenesses—cannot be so cleanly divided into different periods, for they have always been intertwined to some degree. The consciousness of individual architects can be expressed in many different ways. The famous Australian architect Glenn Murcutt maintains a one-­man office; he has neither a secretary nor a computer. Nevertheless, he lectures and teaches all over the world throughout the year. I recently met him in Glasgow, where we were both speakers at an architectural conference, and I asked him what happens to jobs in progress when he is away. He answered ­matter-­of‑factly that they come to a halt in his absence. According to him, a number of clients are waiting for his design even so. He is probably the only architect I know who insists on doing everything himself; his designs are entirely his own. At the opposite end of the spectrum are large architectural offices with hundreds, if not thousands, of personnel. If we think about it, however, a design project is always carried out by a small group of people, however large the office or the project. My own office is of medium size, and no more than seven people are ever involved long-­term in any one project (with the exception of the Nippon Convention Center, completed in 1989, in which fifteen people participated at the peak of activity). Of course, many people, such as expert consultants providing support, circle this group like a cluster of planets on the edge of the solar

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system. However, the larger and the more complex the project, the closer the coordination must be of the small group at the core—all the more so today, when so much design work seems to require racing against the clock. The truth of my assertion has been borne out in my experience of working with core groups and “planetary clusters” of various sizes and characters over the past half-­century. Architecture ultimately depends on the consciousness of individuals. Several years ago, the architect Hiromi Fujii wrote: Certainly today, when values have diversified and confrontation between various fragmented philosophies is deepening the divide among them, the role of modernism as an art of denial may already be at an end. However, the spirit of modernism that seeks freedom of the human spirit, that rejects a standardization which would integrate everything into one tendency, will live on.4

The development of modernism is not dependent on a unilateral elimination of the past. In this, it resembles waves on the sea. Different waves collide and interfere with one another. Some waves disappear and others become even larger than before. The modality of modernism is the sum total of all these waves, large and small. Japan today is one of the international epicenters from which waves emanate; no doubt it will continue to transmit new ideas in the immediate future. The consciousness of the present among architects in the aggregate is what makes this possible. A work of architecture takes on a life of its own the moment it is created. Recently I visited the newly renovated Crown Hall at the Illinois Institute of Technology and was moved once again by the grace and nobility of Mies’s design. I also saw recently for the first time the church in Firminy, France, that was based on models and drawings left behind by Le Corbusier and completed in October 2006, more than forty years after the architect drowned in the sea at Cap Martin. Natural light entering through numerous small round windows give the interior of this soaring concrete structure enormous presence. These were two completely different modernist buildings, but in them I reencountered history and was reminded how modernity can be compatible with timelessness. The ideal work is one that accurately expresses—by its modernity—the particular present in which it is constructed, yet is able to transcend that time and continue to exist. Time alone is the final judge of any work of architecture.

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n o t es an d c r ed i t s

Notes

F orewor d

1. From a speech Professor Toshiko Mori gave at Harvard University, April 20, 2007. I am grateful for Professor Mori’s permission to use her statement, and for the critical advice given by my wife, Mary Patricia Sekler, PhD. 2. See below, “Formative Years,” p. 36. 3. See below, “Space, Territory, and Perception” (written with Mark Mulligan), p. 132. 4. Marcus Vitruvius Pollio, De architectura libri decem 1.1.3, <www​.thelatinlibrary​.com/​ vitruvius1​.html>; free translation by the author. 5. E. F. Sekler, “Thoughts about Architectural Education,” in Peter Nigst, ed., Architektur am Schillerplatz, exhibition catalog (Vienna: Akademie der bildenden Künste, 1996), p. 6. 6. See below, “City and Modernism,” p. 88. F ormat ive Years

1. The building that housed Sert’s office is still standing near Harvard Square at the time of writing, though the name of the street has changed to John F. Kennedy Street. 2. I sometimes dream of foreign cities but, oddly enough, never of Paris or New York. The city that appears most often in my dreams by far is St. Louis, and the scene is never of a place I lived in or of Washington University but, rather, of the desolate midtown or some fantastic townscape born of my memory of that place. 3. Peter Blake has vividly described the decade’s charged intellectual and social environment among modern architecture’s great masters and their followers: “What a marvelous time it was, especially if you are involved in architecture and all the related visual arts. . . . Our mentors and teachers were people like Corbu and Mies. [They were frequently in and out of New York, as were Frank Lloyd Wright, Walter Gropius, Alvar Aalto, Fritz Kiesler, Hans Scharoun, Alfred Roth, and Oscar Niemeyer.] . . .

4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9. 10.

11.

12.

What seems most interesting about these encounters, in retrospect, is the fact that very few of these architects tended to talk about their own work; they seemed much more interested in what was happening in the US, and specially in New York—and in what young people like ourselves were thinking and doing.” From Peter Blake, No Place Like Utopia: Modern Architecture and the Company We Kept (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1993), 192–­193. George Anselevicius later succeeded Passonneau as dean of Washington University’s School of Architecture and later went on to become dean of Harvard’s GSD. Roger Montgomery later became dean at UC Berkeley. Nearly forty years later, I found myself commissioned by Washington University again, this time to design a new university art museum and annex to the School of Art, next to Steinberg Hall. In the more informal environment of campus planning in the 1950s, the design and construction of Steinberg Hall took only three years; by contrast, nearly ten years passed from the time discussions were first held regarding the new Sam Fox School of Design and Visual Arts until its completion in 2006. Friends in the School of Architecture subsequently sent me slides of the building under construction from time to time during my fellowship. On my return to the university in fall of 1960, after the two-­year fellowship had ended, I found that Steinberg Hall had been brought to completion, thanks to many people’s efforts. Tetsuro Watsuji, A Climate: A Philosophical Study, trans. Geoffrey Bownas (Tokyo: Japanese Government Printing Bureau, 1961). Originally published in 1935 under the Japanese title Fudo. Joan Ockman and Edward Eigen, eds., Architecture Culture 1943–­1968: A Documentary Anthology (New York: Rizzoli, 1993), 319. Hajime Yatsuka and Hideki Yoshimatsu, Metaborizumu: Senkyuhyakurokujunendai Nihon no kenchiku avangyarudo (Metabolism: Architectural Avant-­Garde of 1960s Japan) (Tokyo: INAX Shuppan, 1997). Recently, a book entitled Metabolism and Metabolists was published in Japanese by Bijutsu Shuppansha, the publisher of the original Metabolism 1960. The book commemorates the retirement of Masato Otaka from active architectural practice and includes interviews with Metabolism’s founding members, reflecting on their careers over the past ­forty-­five years. Sadly, most of the participants in the ­Bagnols-­sur-­Cèze conference, including the Smithsons, Voelker, Bakema, Woods, De Carlo, and Van Eyck, have now passed away. Even by the 1980s, the Smithsons had retired from actual practice. Although they occasionally took part in competitions or contributed short pieces to architectural publications, they seemed to have deliberately avoided contact with the architectural world. I ran into Alison Smithson on the Harvard campus in the early 1980s. She said she was collecting

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material on Team X from old friends of the time, and that she would welcome any recollection, however fragmentary, I might offer. It seemed to me the Smithsons wanted to bring the curtain down in a definitive fashion on a period of history. 13. Within a few years, the Gaslight Square district would be abandoned and ­demolished. 14. Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1941). Invest igat ions in Collect ive F o rm

1. Paul Goodman and Percival Goodman, Communitas: Means of Livelihood and Ways of Life, revised 2nd ed. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1960), 12–­13. 2. Kenzo Tange, “Architecture and Urbanism,” Japan Architect, October 1960, 12. (From stenographic records of Tange’s speech at the World Design Conference in Tokyo, May 1960; originally published as “Kenchiku to Toshi ni Tsuite” in Shinkenchiku, September 1960.) 3. Steen Eiler Rasmussen, Towns and Buildings (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1951), 81, 91–­92. 4. Louis Kahn, speech on the occasion of the World Design Conference, Tokyo, 1960. 5. John Voelcker, “CIAM Team X Report,” 1951. 6. James Stirling, “Regionalism and Modern Architecture,” Architects’ Year Book 8 (London: Elek Books, 1957), 65. 7. Rasmussen, Towns and Buildings, 92. 8. Kevin Lynch first introduced the notion of “grain” as a defining aspect of cities in his seminal essay “The Form of Cities,” which appeared in Scientific American 190:4 (April 1954), 55–­63. Cit y and Mod ernism

1. David Riesman, Nathan Glazer, and Reuel Denney, The Lonely Crowd: A Study of the Changing American Character (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1955). 2. The term sukiya refers to a style of architecture that developed in ­seventeenth-­century Japan. Associated with the aesthetic traditions of the tea ceremony, sukiya architecture values asymmetry, individuality, and beauty as expressed in the crafting of simple materials rather than applied ornament. My Cit y: The Acquisit ion of Menta l L a n d s c a p e s

1. Jonathan Raban, Soft City (New York: Dutton, 1974), 225. 2. Takeo Okuno, Bungaku ni okeru genfukei (The Primary Landscape in Japanese Literature) (Tokyo: Shueisha, 1972). 3. Raban, Soft City, 226.

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Ame rica: Highways, Detached Houses, and Sk y s c ra p e rs

1. Manfredo Tafuri, Architecture and Utopia (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1976), 38. 2. Reyner Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies (London: Penguin Press, 1971), 213. 3. Vincent Scully, American Architecture and Urbanism (New York: Praeger, 1969). 4. Magda ­Révész-­Alexander, Tou no shisou: Yoroppa bunmei no kagi (The Concept of the Tower: A Key to European Civilization) (Tokyo: Kawade Shobo Shinsha, 1992), Nozomi Ikei, trans. Originally published in German as Der Turm als Symbol und Erlebnis (The Tower as Symbol and Experience) (The Hague: M. Nijhoff, 1953). Th e Draw in g Called Br asília

1. Albert Speer, Inside the Third Reich: Memoirs (New York: Macmillan, 1970). 2. Similar to the Western game of chess, go is a board game of strategy played in China, Korea, and Japan. 3. Albert Speer, Spandau: The Secret Diaries (New York: Macmillan, 1976). 4. In 1998, more than twenty years after writing this essay, I had the opportunity to return to Brasília once again. I was eager to discover what had become of the city in the meantime—to see whether it had found a destiny quite independent of the objectives of those who had so diligently built the city. Night had already fallen when my plane landed, but the light of the following day revealed that the central area of Brasília was indeed greatly changed. What was different about it? First, many large trees—some of them twenty meters high or more—had grown up to fill the city. Through them, the vast continent’s highland landscape expressed a dry lyricism. The superquadra (super­blocks) occupying the ­north-­south “airplane wing” of Costa’s master plan had matured into fully developed residential environments. The ­eight-­story apartment buildings typical here were not different from those proposed by CIAM, but now they are shaded by—and compete for visibility with—those tall tropical trees. Although the slate had been wiped clean by Costa’s vision of Brasília as a ­techno-­utopia, and no space preserved any historical meaning at that time, over the years it became clear that Costa’s vision had allowed for—indeed encouraged—the formation of humane environments in Brasília’s neighborhoods. Note s on Urban Space

1. Takao Aeba, “Seio to wa nanika” (What Is the West?), Mita bungaku, Autumn 1989. 2. Koichi Isoda, Shiso to shite no Tokyo (Tokyo as an Ideology) (Tokyo: Kokubunsha, 1976), 57.

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3. Human beings seem to have an awareness of an outland from early childhood, and it is not difficult to discover outlands in the drawings of children. 4. Saburo Kawamoto, Toshi no fukeigaku (The Study of Urban Landscape) (Tokyo: Shinshindo Shuppan, 1985). 5. Spiro Kostof, A History of Architecture: Settings and Rituals (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 37–­41. 6. Fumihiko Maki, “Hiroba to niwa” (Plaza and Garden), in Kioku no keisho (Tokyo: Chikuma Press, 1992), 275. 7. Augustin Berque, Nihon no fukei, Seio no keikan, soshite zoukei no jidai (Le paysage au Japon, en Europe, et à l’ère du paysagement), trans. Katsuhide Shinoda (Tokyo: Kodansha, 1990). 8. Michel Foucault, “Space, Knowledge, and Power,” an interview with Paul Rabninow, trans. Christian Hubert, in The Foucault Reader (London: Penguin, 1984), 239–­256. 9. The best-­known example is perhaps the reconstruction of Paris by Baron Haussmann during the rule of Napoleon III. 10. Roland Barthes, “The Eiffel Tower,” excerpted from The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1964); reprinted in A Barthes Reader, ed. Susan Sontag (New York: Hill & Wang, 1983), 240. Space, Ter rit ory, and Percept io n

1. Michel Foucault, “Space, Knowledge, and Power,” an interview with Paul Rabninow, trans. Christian Hubert, in The Foucault Reader (London: Penguin, 1984), 239–­256. 2. Walter Benjamin, “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” in Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings, ed. Peter Demetz (New York: Schocken Books, 1986), 146–­149. 3. Rem Koolhaas, Delirious New York: A Retroactive Manifesto for Manhattan (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978). 4. Herbert Muschamp, “Architecture Review: Buildings that Hide and Reveal,” New York Times, September 22, 1995. Reflect ions on Harvard ’s 1956 U rb a n D e s i g n C o n f e re n c e

1. Yosuke Hirayama, Fukanzen toshi: Kobe, Nyuyoku, Berurin (Incomplete Cities: Kobe, New York, Berlin) (Tokyo: Gakugei Shuppansha, 2003), 3; my own translations from the original Japanese. 2. For example, the architect Giancarlo De Carlo was invited to MIT and UC Berkeley at the time. Subsequently, a summer workshop, organized mainly around De Carlo

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and Donlyn Lyndon, was continued in Siena. In 2003, an international urban design workshop was held, attended primarily by young researchers, at the University of Pusan, South Korea. For the last several years, the GSD and Keio University have held a joint workshop dealing with the reorganization of Tokyo. Washington University in St. Louis too has established a Tokyo studio, which is being supported by many in Japan’s academia. 3. Tamiment Institute, The Future Metropolis, ed. Lloyd Rodwin (New York: George Braziller, 1961). Th e Japan e se Cit y and Inner Space

1. The last three terms are derived from the fact that the wife’s quarters were in the inner part of the residence. 2. Eiji Usami, Meiro no oku (The Inner Labyrinth) (Tokyo: Minizu Shobo, 1975), 211–­212. 3. Yuichiro Kojiro, “Nihon no komyuniti” (Japanese Community), Space Design no. 7 (November 1975), 8–­12. 4. Takeo Okuno, Bungaku ni okeru genfukei (The Primary Landscape in Japanese Literature) (Tokyo: Shueisha, 1972), 85–­86. 5. Takeshi Umehara’s description of the awe-­inspiring tower in Xi’an is recalled from a lecture. 6. Maurice Halbwachs, La mémoire collective (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1950). Th e Kaz e -­n o -­Oka Cr emat or ium

1. Jun’ichiro Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows, trans. Thomas J. Harper and Edward G. Seidensticker (New Haven: Leete’s Island Books, 1977), 22–­23. Th e Le C orbusier Sy nd rome: On t he Developm e n t o f M o d e rn A rc h i te c tu re i n J a pa n

1. Charles Jencks, Le Corbusier and the Tragic View of Architecture (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973), 180–­182. 2. Colin Rowe, “The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa,” in The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa and Other Essays (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1976); Robert Venturi, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1966). 3. Ken’ichi Echigoshima, “Sakanoborareru korubyuje II” (Retracing Corbusier—Part 2), in Kenchiku Nenpou 1995 (Tokyo: Nihon Kenchiku Gakkai, 1995), 5–­6.

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4. Ken’ichi Echigoshima, “Rukorubyuje no keitaironteki saikou” (Le Corbusier: A Morphological Reconsideration), Kenchiku Bunka, October 1996, 89. Making Archit ect ure in Japan

1. This essay originally appeared as a foreword to Dana Buntrock’s book Japanese Architecture as a Collaborative Process: Opportunities in a Flexible Construction Culture (London: Spon Press, 2001), xi–­xvii. 2. A keiretsu is a uniquely Japanese corporate entity, consisting of a family of affiliated companies that form a close alliance to ensure one another’s mutual success in ­business. 3. Kunio Maekawa, Kosumosu to hoho (Cosmos and Method) (Tokyo: Maekawa Kunio Sekkei Jimusho/​Toppan Insatsu, 1985), 209–­210. 4. Buntrock, Japanese Architecture as a Collaborative Process, 39. Togo Murano

1. Robert Venturi, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1966). 2. Terunobu Fujimori, Nihon no kindai kenchiku (Modern Architecture in Japan) (Tokyo: Iwanami Shinsho, 1994). St illness and Plenit ud e: The Arc h i te c tu re o f Y o s h i o Ta n i g u c h i

1. Yoshio Taniguchi, “Sekkei ni tsuite” (Concerning Design), Shinkenchiku, September 1979, 155–­156. 2. Yoshio Taniguchi, The Architecture of Yoshio Taniguchi, trans. Jeffrey Hunter (Kyoto: Tankosha, 1996), 14. 3. Richard Padovan, “The Pavilion and the Court,” Architectural Review, December 1981, 359–­368. 4. Interestingly, Padovan quotes the late Peter Smithson as stating that the completion of these two buildings heralded the end of the heroic period of European modernism and that the two architects, taking different paths, subsequently focused their attention on the eternal qualities and the existentialist values of architecture. Padovan, “The Pavilion and the Court,” 366. 5. The notion of and methods for establishing za are analyzed in detail in a book by the Toshi-­dezain Kenkyutai (Urban Design Research Group), entitled Nihon no toshi kukan (Urban Spaces of Japan) (Tokyo: Shokokusha, 1968).

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6. Lewis Mumford, The Culture of Cities (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970), 210–­218. 7. Ignasi de Solà‑Morales, Cristian Cirici, and Fernando Ramos, Mies van der Rohe: Barcelona Pavilion (Barcelona: Editorial Gustavo Gili, 1993). On th e In dust r ial Vernacular

1. Yuzuru Tominaga, “Toshi no genjitsu” (The Reality of the City), Shinkenchiku, May 1981, 223. 2. The Japanese term ma means “interval” or “space between.” 3. Hidetoshi Ono, “Shuen ni chikara ga aru” (Power at the Edge), Kenchiku Bunka, August 1985, 78–­82. 4. Alan Colquhoun, “Form and Figure,” Oppositions no. 12 (1978); 27–37. On Un iv e rsalit y

1. Jay Appleton, The Experience of Landscape (New York: John Wiley, 1975), 73. 2. Spiro Kostof, A History of Architecture: Settings and Rituals (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 37–­38. 3. Sumet Jumsai, Naga: Cultural Origins in Siam and the West Pacific (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 3–­5. Arch ite ctu r al Mod er nit y and t he Conscious n e s s C a lle d th e P re s e n t

1. Alfred Roth, The New Architecture (Zurich: Verlag Dr. H. Girsberger, 1940), 8. 2. Octavio Paz, from his speech on the occasion of accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature, 1990. The full text is published in English (trans. Anthony Stanton) in Nobel Lectures, Literature 1981–­1990, ed. Tore Frängsmyr (Singapore: World Scientific Publishing, 1993). 3. “My fear . . . is my substance, and probably the best part of me.” Franz Kafka, letter to Milena Jesenská, quoted in Margarete Buber-­Neumann, Milena, trans. Ralph Manheim (German title Kafkas Freundin Milena) (New York: Seaver Books, 1988), ch. 7. 4. Hiromi Fujii, “Shinpojiamu: Kindai kenchiku wo dou toraeru ka I” (Symposium: How to Understand Modern Architecture, Part 1), Shinkenchiku, January 1983, 154.

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O ri g i n a l P u b l i c at ion Data

The essay “Formative Years” has been written specially for this book, incorporating auto­ biographical passages that appeared in previous essays—primarily “Modanizumu to no deai” (Shinkenchiku magazine, special edition, January 1991); “J. L. Sert: His Beginning Years at Harvard” (Process Architecture no. 34, December 1982); “Years at Washington Uni­ versity” (in Eric Mumford, Modern Architecture in St. Louis: Washington University and Postwar American Architecture, 1948–­1973, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004); and “Notes on Collective Form” ( Japan Architect no. 16, Winter 1994). “Investigations in Collective Form” first appeared in 1964 as a pamphlet published by the Washington University School of Architecture. The second part of this essay, “Linkage in Collective Form,” was coauthored by Jerry Goldberg. The preface that appears at the beginning of this essay was written three decades after the main text and first published in Japan Architect no. 16, Winter 1994, under the title “Notes on Collective Form: An Introductory Chapter.” It appears here in abridged form. “Time and Landscape: Collective Form at Hillside Terrace” has been rewritten specially for this book, incorporating passages that originally appeared in “Time and Landscape” ( Japan Architect no. 16, Winter 1994) and “Fragmentation and Friction as Urban Threats” (Harvard Design Magazine no. 24, Spring/​Summer 2006). “City and Modernism” was published in the February 1984 issue of Shinkenchiku magazine under the title “Toshi to modanizumu.” “My City: The Acquisition of Mental Land­ scapes” was published as “Watashi no toshi—kakutoku suru shinshofukei” in Tenbo, March 1976. “America: Highways, Detached Houses, and Skyscrapers” was published as “Amerika no toshi to sono kouzou no ichidanmen” in Karamu Quarterly, 1982. “The Drawing Called Brasília” was published as “Toshi to iu ” (The Drawing Called a City) in Sekai, April 1977. “Notes on Urban Space” first appeared as “Toshi kukan ni kansuru noto”

in Kioku no keisho. “Space, Territory, and Perception” first appeared in the Wissen­schäftliche Zeitschrift der ­Bauhaus-­Universität Weimar, 1997; it was coauthored by Mark Mulligan.“Reflec­ tions on Harvard’s 1956 Urban Design Conference” was published under the title “Fragmen­ tation and Friction as Urban Threats” in Harvard Design Magazine no. 24, Spring/​Summer 2006; the current publication restores the author’s original title. “The Japanese City and Inner Space” first appeared in the December 1978 issue of Sekai, under the title “Nihon no ­toshi-­kukan to oku”; shortly thereafter, the same text became the concluding chapter of the book Miegakure-­suru toshi (Seen and Unseen City) (Fumihiko Maki and others, Tokyo: Kajima Publishing, 1980) under the title “Oku no shisou” (The Idea of Inner Space). The essay first appeared in English translation in Japan Architect, May 1979, as “Japanese City Spaces and the Concept of Oku.” The preface was added in 1994, when the essay was reprinted in The Building and the Town: Festschrift in Honor of Eduard F. Sekler (ed. Wolfgang Boehm, Vienna: Boelau Verlag). “The Kaze-­no-­Oka Crematorium” appears as an extended essay for the first time in this book. The essay “The Le Corbusier Syndrome: On the Development of Modern Architecture in Japan” was a contribution to the 1999 publication Rukorubyujie to Nihon (Le Corbusier and Japan) produced by Kajima Publishing, Tokyo. “Making Architecture in Japan” was written as a foreword for Dana Buntrock’s book Japanese Architecture as a Collaborative Process: Opportunities in a Flexible Construction Culture (London: Spon Press, 2001). “Togo Murano” was written as an introduction for Botond Bognar’s book Togo Murano: Master Architect of Japan (New York: Rizzoli, 2001). “Stillness and Plenitude: the Architecture of Yoshio Taniguchi” first appeared in Japan Architect no. 21, Spring 1996. The essay “On the Industrial Vernacular” is an excerpt from a longer essay, “Kindai-­shugi no hikari to kage” (Light and Shadow of Modernism), published in Shinkenchiku, January 1986. “The Roof at Fujisawa” was published in Perspecta 24: The Yale Architectural Journal (New York: Rizzoli, 1989). “On Universality” was published in Selected Passages on the City and Architecture (Tokyo: Maki and Associates, 2000) and has been extended into a full-­length essay for the present book. The final essay, “Architectural Modernity and the Consciousness Called the Present,” is published for the first time in this book. Hiroshi Watanabe has translated all essays in this volume, with the exception of three essays originally written in English: “Investigations in Collective Form,” “Space, Territory, and Perception,” and “The Roof at Fujisawa.”

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Photo Credits

I would like to thank the following individuals and organizations for their permission to use photographs, drawings, and other illustrations that appear in this book; and while every effort has been made to identify copyright holders for each image, I would be grateful to hear from those who may have escaped my notice. The Art Institute of Chicago (3.11) Asakura Real Estate Co., Ltd. (2.11) ASPI (2.9) Fabian Berthold + Kathrin Linkersdorff (4.31, 4.32) Botond Bognar (4.8) FLC/ ARS, 2007 (4.5) Harvard University, Loeb Design Library (1.3) Khushnu Panthaki Hoof (4.28) Koji Kamiya (1.2) Kikutake Architects (1.6) Toshiharu Kitajima (3.9, 3.25, 3.26, 3.28, 3.29, 3.30, 3.31, 3.32, 3.33, 3.35, 4.4, 4.12, 4.14) Fumihiko Maki (1.4, 1.7, 2.1, 2.4, 2.7, 3.3, 3.4, 3.6, 3.7, 3.8, 3.14, 3.15, 3.20, 3.21, 4.16, 4.21, 4.29, 4.30) Maki & Associates (1.5, 2.10, 2.13, 2.16, 2.17, 2.18, 2.19, 2.21, 3.10, 3.19, 3.24, 3.26, 3.34, 4.1, 4.17, 4.22, 4.24, 4.25) Nikkei Architecture (4.22)

Kaneaki Monma (2.15) Mark Mulligan (4.26) Osamu Murai (4.3) Takashi Nakasa, Naçasa @ Partners Inc. (3.36) Ota Kinen Bijutsukan (3.22) Sakakura Associates (4.2) Shinkenchiku-­sha (2.12, 2.14, 2.20, 4.6, 4.7, 4.9, 4.13, 4.18, 4.19, 4.20, 4.23, 4.24) Shokoku-­sha Photographers (4.11) Kenzo Tange Associates (2.3) Taniguchi Architects & Associates (4.10) US Geological Survey (3.1) Wide World Photos (3.2) Fig. 2.5 is reprinted from Susumu Higuchi, Sora kara mita Nihon ( Japan Seen from the Air) (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju Shinsa, 1960). Fig. 2.6 is reprinted from Candilis, Josic, Woods, Toulouse le Mirail: Birth of a New Town (Stuttgart: Karl Krämer Verlag, 1975). Fig. 2.8 is reprinted from S. Lloyd, H. W. Müller, and R. Martin, Ancient Architecture: Mesopotamia, Egypt, Crete, Greece (New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc. Publishers, 1974). Fig. 3.5 is reprinted from A. Buchmann, Lúcio Costa: O inventor da cidade de Brasília (Brasília: Thesaurus Editora, 2002). Fig. 3.16 and 4.15 are reprinted from K. F. Schinkel, Collected Architectural Designs (London: Academy Editions, 1982). Fig. 3.17 is reprinted from Osamu Mori, Katsura Rikyu (Tokyo: Touto Bunka Publishing, 1955). Fig. 3.18 is reprinted from Noboru Shimamura and Yukio Suzuka, Kyo no Machiya (Tokyo: Kajima Publishing, 1971). Fig. 3.23 is reprinted from Uzo Nishiyama, Nihon no Sumai I (Tokyo: Keiso Shobo, 1976). Fig. 4.27 is reprinted from Takeji Iwamiya and Kazuya Takaoka, Katachi (Tokyo: P.I.E. Books, 1999).

PHOTO CREDITS

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Ac k n o w l e d g m e n t s

The essays and projects in this book cover almost my entire career as an architect, which began in the early 1950s. Looking back, it was my very good fortune to be acquainted with a number of people who not only helped me broaden my view of the city and architecture but also were an important part of a fertile cultural landscape where I could nurture my own dreams. Among these many individuals, several deserve special mention. From Kunio Maekawa, I learned a great deal about ethics in architecture. Kenzo Tange and Josep Lluis Sert—my mentors at the University of Tokyo and Harvard’s Graduate School of Design, respectively—taught me about the genesis of modernism in architecture and urban design. My colleagues at Washington University in St. Louis, in particular Jerry Goldberg, helped me to publish “Investigations in Collective Form.” My colleagues at Harvard have continued to support my work while inspiring me with their own. Among them, I am honored to have the foreword of this book from Eduard Sekler (under whom I took courses in European architectural history). I shared the Zeitgeist of the 1960s with fellow young architects of my generation, the members of Metabolism in Japan and Team X abroad—especially Aldo van Eyck and Giancarlo De Carlo, the conscience of European architecture at that time. In every person’s life, there are always a number of encounters. What is thrilling about each one is that it opens up a new reality when we least expect it. My own life is no exception. For me, this new reality is often exposed by the younger generation, and I offer my thanks to them for providing a connection between my own past and future. Regarding the essays themselves, I am grateful to Hiroshi Watanabe for his artful translations of my original Japanese texts, and to Mark Mulligan for his accomplished editing. And of course, much of my debt is owed to the members of Maki and Associates who have supported me throughout the past forty years of my practice, allowing me to find time to travel and write. Fumihiko Maki