Tadao Ando : Light

Light is the beginning of all being. By impacting the surface of things, light lends them outlines. The shadow behind them then gives depth. Things find expression at the transition between light and shadow and gain their individual shape; their relationships and certain bonds become evident there. Light gives things autonomy while simultaneously defining their relationships. We could even say that light highlights the differences of individuals in the context of their relationships. Light: the creator of relationships that constitute the world. And although it is the source of all being, it is by no means an unchanging source. Light is rather a movement, full of tremor—due to its endless variability, light continuously re-discovers the world.
Architecture—endeavoring to carve a part from the ubiquitous light and hold it in fixed places, which throughout the ages tries to capture while keeping its life-giving essence intact—thus, is architecture not what purifies the abilities of light and transmits them to our consciousness? In every moment, light gives new form and shape to everything that exists and new relationships to things; architecture concentrates light into its most condensed form. Creating architectural spaces is, therefore, simply the condensation and purification of the power of light.
Observations like these about the relationships between architecture and light do not stem from ideas, but rather come from the depths of experiences with space that have inscribed themselves into me as a human being. Such as experiences with Japanese architecture—for example, the tea house, where space is simply divided into parts by paper stretched over delicate wooden frames. As light penetrates these, it subtly disperses into the interior, mingles with darkness, and produces space built on the gradation of monochrome. Japanese architecture has traditionally sought, through sensitive technology, to segment light into its individual fragments. The subtle changes achieved at the level of trembling energy allow space to emerge almost imperceptibly.
Western architecture once used massive walls to separate interior spaces from the outside. Windows, embedded in walls so thick that they seemed to reject the external world, were small and had a sober style. These windows, perhaps even more than just allowing light, shone with an intense sparkle, as if they themselves were embodiments of light. They perhaps expressed a fundamental human desire, dwelling in darkness, for light. The magnificence of the stream of light penetrating the deep silence of darkness served as a means of evoking sublimity. The windows were not meant for the pleasure of the view, but purely for the unmediated intrusion of light. The light that penetrated the interior of architecture opened up spaces built firmly and solidly. Starkly outlined openings precisely tracked the movement of light. Space was cut—much like creating a sculpture—by a beam of light piercing through darkness, and its appearance changed with every shift.
Modern architecture liberated windows from the constraints of construction and allowed them arbitrary appearance and size. However, instead of leading to the liberation of light in architecture, the vitality of light diffuses ineffectively and loses its essence. Modern architecture created a world of excessive transparency—a world that is homogeneously bright and illuminated, where everything else is excluded and stripped of darkness. This world of dispersed light meant the death of space just as certainly as absolute darkness.
For ancient man, light served as a measure of time. Mighty rays of light, striking the earth from the enormously distant sun—a world changing its direction, angle, and intensity depending on location, season, and time of day—provided the basic shape for perceptions, meanings, and feelings about space. Light, entering interiors through openings of the structures created by man, allowed individuals dwelling within to understand their own being in relation to their surroundings.
From the medieval period to the pre-modern era—both in Japan and Western architecture—light required careful handling due to a considerable number of various constraints. As a result, individuals inside specific architecture became immediately aware of their relationship binding them to nature. In today's era of immense technological possibilities, it is possible to illuminate internal spaces of architecture effortlessly and insensitively, and consequently, individuals no longer feel the individual character of distinct places. And thanks to artificial lighting, the awareness of the relationship to nature has completely faded away.
For these reasons, I consider the role of natural light, which addresses us at any point in our artificial environment, to be absolutely fundamental—it gives places a sense of immediacy in both space and time. I engage in precise observation and discernment of what light does and strive to bring it into architecture in a way that gives the space depth and allows for the creation of strongly stimulating places.
Light in itself, however, does not yet make light. For light to be light, dignified and powerfully shining, darkness must also exist. Darkness, which ignites light and reveals its strength, is an integral part of it. And yet the richness and depth of darkness have vanished from our awareness, and the subtle nuances produced by light and darkness, their mutual spatial resonance—we have all but forgotten those. In this time when everything is bathed in uniform light, I have resolved to explore and utilize the relationships between light and darkness. Light, whose beauty shines like a gem in the palm amidst darkness, light that has the ability to create cavities within darkness and penetrate our bodies, infuses space with life. It is this light that builds space, as I attempted in my Chapel of Light. In this case, I built a box of dense concrete walls—and gained darkness. Then I placed notches in the walls that allow precisely defined streams of light to permeate. The stream of light sharply breaks through the darkness. The wall, floor, and ceiling meet this stream, rising from the background and simultaneously reflecting it back, thereby giving rise to complex relationships. Thus, space is born. And with every change in the angle at which light enters, things and their interrelationships transform. In other words, space is never completed and ripe, but is constantly renewed. This place, full of perpetual birth, should help people reflect on the hidden contents of life.
Architecture must offer places whose spiritual vitality allows individuals to liberate themselves from the context of everyday life. Light is what awakens architecture to life and breathes strength into it.