Tadao Ando: From the Periphery of Architecture

Through the territory of the Ise shrine flows a stream called Isuzu. The sight of its clear current deeply moves me and is beautiful. When I repeatedly come to it, memories return that I have almost forgotten over the years. The view of the long wall that rises from the water to eye level creates a very calm impression. Perhaps because the wall by the water endures even as nature changes over the continuous flow of time.
Water has a strange power to stimulate our imagination and consciousness of all the possibilities that life offers. And water is a monochromatic material, seemingly colored yet colorless. In reality, its monochromatic world is infinitely full of various shades of colors. And then water is also a mirror. I believe there is a profound relationship between water and the human spirit.
The plans for my first buildings were all symmetrical, as if they were reflections in the water. Over time, their symmetry loosened, and when I think about it now, I feel it may have been caused by the deep influence traditional Japanese architecture has on me. When I was young, I often visited Kyoto and Nara and went into old Japanese buildings, such as Sukiya and machiya architecture (townhouses). However, when I opened my practice, I sought patterns for my work in the West, believing that architectural creation had to be modeled on the Western example. I rejected traditional Japanese architecture. On the other hand, I have always been aware. Whenever I immerse myself in foreign, especially Western architecture, for some reason, the sight of traditional Japanese architecture deeply moves me. Again, I realize how many beautiful buildings there are in Japan. Traditional Japanese architecture offers many answers to questions about the relationship between humanity and nature — a relationship that is very tense today. As a result, I recently contemplated studying traditional Japanese architecture again. It occurred to me while traveling. It is more important to learn things through one's body and spirit than from books. I can better see the circumstances and cultural context of Japan in which I live when I am in a very distant country and am simultaneously exposed to the influence of that country's culture. Indeed, by traveling abroad, I found myself closer to both Japan and the culture of that foreign country, and the things inside me and outside mixed and stimulated each other. Since my youth, I have tried to understand the things around me through my body and soul and base my understanding on that knowledge. My wish is to create such buildings that I would want to experience myself and find interesting. By "interesting" building, I mean one that is in some way the opposite, i.e., betraying our expectations.
I have tried to create works that are deceptive, that do not meet people's expectations as they experience my spaces. For instance, a work that appears symbolic and symmetrical from the outside may prove to be asymmetrical on the inside. Or what looks simple from the outside may have a complex space within. I feel that the more complicated an apparently simple spatial arrangement is, the more effective and interesting it seems. The greater the difference between the experience of the space and the rigorous geometry of the architecture, the more stimulating the work is for people. I want to create, through dramatic illusion, unforgettable spatial experiences that deeply impact the human spirit.
As for me, architecture constantly oscillates between extremes and has a definitive form only when I determine it. It oscillates between the inside and outside, the West and the East, abstraction and representation, part and whole, history and present, past and future, simplicity and complexity. It never occupies a single place. Perhaps that is why I fear fixing anything individual that is only part of the whole. It is an anxiety I feel, even when I am only designing individual buildings. Even though I am certain in my decisions, I find that I am afflicted by secondary thoughts. I experience tension in which both certainty and uncertainty coexist. When I design architecture, I oscillate between these extremes. The greater this oscillation in the creative process, the more dynamic the result appears.
Today's cultural conditions are closed in a certain sense. Especially in architecture, historical and regional aspects have become abstracted and replaced with qualities based on economic rationalism, with simplicity and mediocrity predominating. Everything is derived from functionality and rationality, and homogeneous spaces without individuality prevail. The homogeneous spaces of the modern era are the result of a consistent pursuit of functionality. Spaces expand infinitely, people are drawn into vast structures, and the properties that could distinguish spaces and make them unique are excluded. Spaces become abstract, and their character is vague. They lack human character, resulting in a state referred to as "loss of center." Architecture becomes a product. On the other hand, strong economies allow architects to realize very elaborate and headstrong projects, at least in this country. When architects do not constrain the expression of their individuality and forget the human and urban context, then architecture becomes a product of their own interests. The guiding idea of my architecture is that we must somehow escape this unpleasant situation.
I hope I will always be sensitive to social imperatives and trends in architecture, but that I will not be swept away by them. Instead, I want to adopt what is truly useful for me from the vast amount of information. Over the past twenty years, various schools of thought have emerged in architecture and disappeared. What remains of them? Postmodernism and deconstruction have been very critical of modernism, which sought unity and homogeneity. However, postmodernism dealt with only one aspect of modernity, evoking styles from the past as a reaction to it. It ended up in superficial discussions about which forms (shapes) are more interesting. Deconstructivism, attempting to decompose Western culture centered around language, must be limited to the sphere of Western culture and carefully considered regarding its relevance to Japanese culture. As different currents in architecture gradually gained the upper hand over the course of twenty years, I constantly asked myself — what is so profoundly impressive about specific works? I came to realize that I must understand things in architecture not through abstraction but through my body and spirit — and then new horizons for architecture will open up for me.
My architecture draws from the compositional methods and forms of Modernism, but I emphasize the site, climate, weather, and the historical and cultural background of each individual situation. In every set of conditions, I want to rediscover the starting point — the point from which architecture must emerge. In other words, I want to dynamically integrate two counterpoints — abstraction and representation. Abstraction is an aesthetic that arises from clear logic and transparency of concept, while representation focuses on all historical, cultural, climatic, topographical, urbanistic, and living conditions. I want to integrate both as deeply as possible. The sense may appear on the surface; it can be geometrical abstraction. However, inside there must be a lot of the representational, addressing concrete problems. When abstraction and representation entered into a relationship, a unique compositional method and forms arise. Architecture exists in conflict between abstraction and representation. Another element, nature, also enters this relationship, representing a different plane than abstraction and representation. Architecture is not just manipulation of shapes, but a thing that arises thanks to humans at a given place. Geometry condenses various meanings that are tied to architecture. Nature in the form of light, water, and air, let into the basic geometric shapes of architecture, oscillates between abstraction and representation and gives rise to architecture that has something of both. The greater the distance between abstraction and representation, the more impressively nature is incorporated, and the more dynamic the entire architectural piece becomes.
In the case of post-war buildings, much has been discarded in the name of rationalism: contact with nature, the real sense of life, sunlight, the flow of wind, the sound of falling rain. I do not want to rid myself of these things that directly appeal to my body and spirit. I want to create lively spaces that outwardly appear as simple shells and inside are labyrinths, spaces where nature and people can truly feel that they are alive. For example, Azuma House, which is a row house in Sumiyoshi, is divided into three parts. Its middle part forms a garden (courtyard). I wanted to create a microcosm at the center of this garden. One enters the house feeling safe. But then they notice an open space behind the entrance area. To enclose a free space inside the house is against common sense. Finding free space where one expects an interior means overturning and interrupting the space (causing discontinuity). According to the canons of modern architecture, this is an absurd and inappropriate undertaking. However, this discontinuity allows nature to enter the house. The building remains a simple block, but nature and the movement of people complexly change the architecture. Placing complex spaces into geometrical and simple compositions means providing something unexpected and stimulating human consciousness. After all, the simple boxes that Modernism proposes are dreams of themselves merely as simple boxes. I want to enrich architecture by inserting complexity into that simple box. However, at that time, I did not analytically analyze what I was doing; only later did I realize what I wanted. At that time, I was completely absorbed in my work. In the process of creating the truly minimalist Azuma House, I learned many other things. For example, I found that nature—sunlight and the sky—gives inorganic concrete a much richer appearance. This house serves as the starting point for my subsequent work in everything—from space to materials. It is a small building, but it contains much. I want to create intense but still small buildings where the voice of their creator can be heard.
In Japan, it is common practice that during construction, nature at a given site is destroyed, terraces are built, and thus the rolling of the terrain is removed. As a result, the place loses any character. I believe that to make a place homogeneous, something valuable for architecture must be forfeited. The order for Rokko Housing came just when I was thinking about these things, and my thoughts were taking shape. I decided to take this opportunity to reconsider the relationship between construction and nature. When I visited the future construction site for the first time, I found that the sixty-degree slope offers a beautiful view of Osaka Bay. I wanted to fully utilize the distinctive character of that place. And then I had an idea — the entire concept of Rokko House. I decided that the buildings would be low, the structure would embrace the hillside, and the architecture would merge with the lush surrounding greenery. In this way, each unit gained a roof terrace connected to the unit below it, and from all units, one can see the ocean.
Here, too, I wanted to restore what Modernism rejected. First, I wanted to create a simple grided frame. People often mistakenly believe that a grided frame is an orthodox expression of the homogeneity of space, but in reality, it is not the central idea of Modernism. To achieve a homogeneous space that knows no bounds and expands infinitely, Modernism sought to remove the meaning of columns by transforming them into an abstract and homogeneous network of points. The way I work with a network of points is different in that I give meaning to the frame. What I learned then led me to understand the entire problem of Modernism and provided me with the key to the subsequent Rokko Housing II. I also considered how, at a time when the same houses began to be mass-built in Japan, houses that do not look uniform could appear. The main question for me is whether architecture can be both — abstract and representational, or not. Rokko Housing II is my most complete solution to date in this regard. The overall composition is nothing more than simple volumes created from squares, grided frames, yet the various types of units that the object consists of are quite complexly arranged. When architecture is governed by only one logic, it becomes monotonous and uninteresting. This is the main mistake to which Modernism tends. I want to create buildings that, in terms of their composition, appear simple, but in reality have the rich quality of a labyrinth. One recalls the paintings of two different painters — Albers and Piranesi. In a series called "Homage to the Square," Albers, further developing the ideas of the Bauhaus, limited himself to the square, thoroughly developing this shape and achieving universal, eternal freedom of expression and the essence of the shape itself. Piranesi's "Carceri" are truly complex images of the labyrinth of corporeality, and I can still recall their immense power and sense of space.
After Rokko Housing, I worked on a project for Times. At that time, I was drawn to the problem of contextualism. Caring for context leads to an interest in significantly integrating architecture into a given place. We cannot discuss traditional Japanese culture separately from the natural beauty of Japan's four seasons or the geographical and topographical characteristics of the country. Architecture is an introduction of an autonomous object into a place, but it is also a project for the whole place. It is a discovery of what kind of building the place needs. The structure of the city in which the given place exists is also important. It encompasses the ways of life and customs of people from ancient times to the future. Architecture is an act of discovering these things and bringing them to the surface. I want to capture not just things manifesting in shapes, but the invisible and shapeless things, especially the ways of thinking and feelings hidden beneath the surface of these shapes, and use them in a new context, giving them life.
In a traditional Japanese promenade garden, such as in the Katsura Detached Palace, the rooms of the pavilions are placed around natural elements, especially water. In the Times project, I aimed to achieve three-dimensional circularity with the Takase River at the center. I positioned the building so close to the river that visitors could soak their hands in it. The intention is for the building to allow visitors to feel the history of the city and its cultural tradition so that they do not view Kyoto merely as a museum. I also wanted to see how perfectly geometric and simple shapes can relate to representational or traditional elements and how to express the strength and beauty of concrete blocks.
It turns out that even rational architecture is irrational. Not everything can be reasonably explained. I feel that things that cannot be completely explained or described are, in fact, valuable for architecture. In the case of the recently completed Children's Museum, I put great effort into the design of a special outdoor space (which I call a "landscape"). Until now, society has not allowed building things that cannot be explained in terms of functionality. However, I want to show that there are things in society that cannot be explained only functionally. I wanted to create a place where children, who play little today, could engage with nature. Moreover, there is no play equipment at all. Children are exposed to nature, that is, let into the landscape as much as possible because I believe children should discover play for themselves. There is a long wall standing there, cutting through the greenery, but it has no roof. I built non-functional columns and walls there because I wanted architecture to allow people to live spiritually in nature. I believe this irrational quality is important. The modernism of the past became repulsive because it rejected such irrationality. At the same time that I was designing the Children's Museum, I was also designing Raika Headquarters Building and had the opportunity to create office spaces. I considered what it means for people to work. Offices are designed based on the rules of functionality and rationality. Moreover, the contemporary trend toward smart buildings reinforces this tendency. When one looks at the beautiful finishes and comfort of these buildings, they discover that office spaces still lean heavily on functionality and economic rationalism, with the aim of making people work efficiently and with greater productivity. However, people are not just parts that need to be placed into functional spaces but creative, active beings. I believe the idea that work is a part of life will be important for offices from now on. There should be buildings where function is the outcome or surrender to extremity. I want to create spaces, I want to create buildings that support creativity and enhance people's energy. However, this may be difficult to rationally explain. The headquarters building is a cylinder, with a large atrium in the center, and various multi-story spaces are located among the offices. There is a garden on the roof. These elements may seem extravagant; yet they represent that additional space that encourages communication between people. I also wanted to attempt to embody the ideals of Le Corbusier's "five points” from the 1920s: "pilotis," rooftop gardens, vertically stacking windows, free plans, and free facades.
Too much of contemporary architecture is designed as a direct response to social demands. Instead of responding directly to such demands, I want to identify what the fundamental problems are and think about their essential characteristics. When I then receive functional feedback, I want to draw what is truly needed. Because creating architecture must also simultaneously be an act of critique. One then begins to clearly understand the framework of the conceptual basis of architecture. I believe that the strength of concepts determines how long one's architecture will last. Perhaps it does not matter how beautiful the details are and how lovely the surface is. What is important is the clarity of the author's logic — that is, the clarity of the logic contained in the composition of the work and the consistency with which the logic is applied. We can call it spatial arrangement or a quality recognized by reason rather than observation. Transparency is important — not the transparency we associate with superficial beauty or the simple quality of geometry, but the transparency of consistent logic.
Then I hold nature within the building and this transparent logic. Nature in the form of water, light, and sky brings architecture back from the metaphysical plane to the earth and gives life to architecture. Caring for the relationship between architecture and nature inevitably leads to an interest in the temporal context of architecture. I want to emphasize a sense of time and create a composition where the feeling of transience and the passage of time is part of the spatial experience. It must impact the sensitivity of a person who has experienced it. The best Japanese gardens are not static but dynamic. One clearly perceives the subtle changes occurring in individual moments, seasons, and year by year — in the moss, in the trees, or in the birds arriving in the garden. The individual parts are alive, and these parts together breathe new life into the whole. When I look at a garden that, like an organism, is never finished but instead persists in time, I ask myself whether I might be able to create living buildings — that is, buildings that flow along with time. In a certain sense, real buildings necessitate that their creator, at a certain moment, stops the process of their thinking and completes them. The concept of time can be very difficult to apply. However, I want to attempt to depict the parts while pointing to the whole, capturing the moment while glimpsing eternity.
Around the Children's Museum, a whole range of facilities for children are being built. I would like to see these facilities spread across a rich natural environment with its green hills and beautiful waters. Nature, in the form of wind, water, and sun, enlivens geometrically arranged architecture. The elements, all different, overlap and integrate with each other, resonating a string of understanding in the visitors. I would like to continue building buildings capable of engaging in such a dialogue with people.