I was born and raised in a mountainous area in the center of Japan. The small rural village of seventy households in which I grew up is located near lake Suwa.

Not far from my village, there is an old shrine called Suwa-Taisha. Every six years, a festival is held there called onbashira (literally: "the honored pillars"); it is based on a belief passed down from the era of the hunters. During the festival, huge logs of one by twenty meters and a weight of six tons are dragged from the mountains and raised on the shrine's grounds. It is one of the most challenging and dangerous festivals in Japan. The logs are carried through mountains, fields and valleys. Last year, three people died.

For centuries, the Shinto priest in charge of the Suwa-Taisha Shrine has been elected from the Moriya family, which also organizes the onbashira festival. The present head is the eighty-ninth head of the Moriya family. Detailed stories about the circumstances under which the people of Suwa stopped hunting and switched to agriculture have been handed down through the family from generation to generation.

At university, I entered the Department of Architecture to become an architect, but during my studies I decided to major in the history of architecture and focused on Modern Japanese History from 1868 onwards. I have not only visited and examined various kinds of architecture, ranging from the historicism of the nineteenth century to the modernism of the twentieth century, but also written a number of articles and books on these themes.

During this period of research, I traveled through England, France, the United States and Germany to see the historicist architecture that influenced Japan. I also studied Art Nouveau, German Expressionist and Bauhaus architecture.

Three requirements for Moriya

In 1989, when I was forty-two years old, the head of the Moriya family contacted me. A local village wanted to set up a historical museum for the family, and he wanted me to help with its design. Having not designed anything since my finals at the university, I hesitated. However, I did not know of any modern architect who could build something that is compatible with the belief of the era of the hunters, so decided to take on the challenge.

I had to meet three conditions:

1. The Moriya family worships Mt. Moriya, a sacred mountain which rises behind the village. To be in line with their beliefs, the design had to meld in with the surrounding plains and mountains as well as with the landscape of fields and houses.

2. The Museum had to reflect the beliefs of the era of the hunters and of the Stone Age.

3. It had to meet the fire safety and seismic stability requirements for historical Museums.

As a historian and critic, I knew a lot about past and present architecture, but I could not think of any architectural style that would meet these three conditions. For example, modern buildings made of steel, glass and concrete meet the third, but not the first or the second condition. What about the local style of the traditional houses? There was a local style called honmune zukuri. I have used it for various projects. However, after thinking about this style for two or three days, I went off the idea. The styles seemed to be the work of a historian who flattered history.

There was another reason why I did not like them. The style of traditional peasant houses, like the honmune zukuri, was first established in Japan during the sixteenth century. Before this period, the Japanese lived in hut-like dwellings covered with sedge grass and boards. I thought that too much time had passed between the honmune zukuri style and the belief of the Moriya Family whose roots are in the Stone Age.

For a long time, I made little progress with my designs. However, inspired by a conversation with Takamasa Yoshizaka, a disciple of Le Corbusier, I was finally able to develop a satisfactory plan. Looking back helped me to move forward.

Construction work began. After completing the structure of reinforced concrete, one problem occurred after another. One major issue was how to do the finishing work. In order to retain the Stone Age theme, I decided to use the stone, wood and soil in as natural a way as possible, so that they were in harmony with the surrounding landscape of plains and mountains. However, I initially had no idea how to implement my idea.

For the roof, I used local andesite, a thin, hard and flat stone (also found in Switzerland), on a deck coated with zinc. Fortunately, andesite was a material that had already been used by locals to cover roofs before World War II, so that the technique has been passed down to the present time.

My next problem was how I should cover the concrete walls with wooden boards. I did not want to use mechanically sawn boards. Research on the history of making boards in Japan showed that before timber saws arrived from China in the twelfth century, boards were made by splitting logs with edged tools. I searched for a craftsman who could split wood to make boards and found an elderly man who had split wood to make roof shingles before the war. Using this technique, he made boards that were 120 centimeters long and fifteen millimeters thick.

The next challenge was how to cover reinforced concrete with a mud wall. In a cold climate, mud walls collapse during the freezing and thawing in the winter. I asked plasterers and building experts if there was a soil that would withstand the winter, but nobody knew of one. Having no other option, I decided to look for the appropriate materials myself. I carried out many experiments, mixing soil with cement and plaster, then freezing it in a refrigerator and thawing it in a sunny place, but I was not able to make a winterproof soil.

For lack of any other ideas, I finally mixed cut straw with earth-colored mortar and plastered it roughly on the walls with my hands. After the plaster had hardened, I used a brush to apply a thin layer of mud on top of it. Only about one millimeter of the wall surface is real soil, but with straw sticking out of it most people think that the whole wall is made of it.

After the completion of the building, I had to design the garden. There are excellent garden traditions in Japan, but all of them were established after the seventh century. Thus, I could not use them. Taking various options into consideration, I realized that, of all plants, we have the oldest and closest ties with vegetables. A vegetable field, regarded as a single green object, is actually surprisingly beautiful.

However, when I proposed the idea to the city office, it was turned down on the grounds that the budget for a garden could not be used for a vegetable field. That is why I decided to plant bamboo grass. Bamboo grass grows much taller than a lawn. Like an animal hiding in a bush, the building could hide behind the grass. This is how both the work and my architectural debut were completed.

Three fundamental design principles

Afterwards I was able to establish three basic principles of design:

1. My design should resemble neither the existing styles of any country nor the works of any modern architect.

2. Products of modern science and technology should be used for structures and places that cannot be seen, and natural materials–shown at their most natural–for places that can be seen. Science and technology should thus be wrapped in nature.

3. In gardens, only bamboo grass or lawn should be planted. There should be no boundaries between the site and its surroundings.

After my architectural debut, I developed a completely new interest in design. However, in the following months, nobody asked me to be their architect, considering me, as they did, as a historian of architecture. I thus built my own house. I added an additional principle to my first three principles of design–the principle of "greening" architecture. The greening of architecture has been a theme since Le Corbusier. Though many have worked on this idea and, even today, German ecologists seriously try to find a way to design it, none of the projects that I have visited myself seem to have been successful. Either the plants were in bad condition or they were healthy, but did not fit aesthetically with the architecture. If you look at the architecture and the plants as separate things, there is no problem, but if you consider them as a single object, there is obviously a significant discrepancy between the two elements.

In order to overcome this difference and to interweave the architecture and the plants, I planted dandelions in a belt-like form from the roof to the walls of my own house, but I could not bridge the gap between them. Since then, I have used various techniques. However, I have to confess that all of them have ended in failure, one reason being the maintenance problems.

Nature made by gods, and architecture made by humans can, if they are kept apart, be beautiful. When compared to each other, they look even better, but once they are unified it is a disaster both aesthetically and in terms of maintenance. Looking back on it now, I think that my theme has always been the relationship between nature and artifacts. I have thus put the ideas of "wrapping science and technology in nature" and of "greening architecture" into practice. The former project was successful, while the latter one has–as-yet–been unsuccessful.

My story goes back and forth. Let us look back again at the reactions to the Jinchōkan Moriya Historical Museum. After the completion of the Museum, the critique was not very positive. The local villagers said, "Why did he use such an oldfashioned style? Why didn't he choose a more modern form?" Contrary to what one would expect, Japanese people from rural areas admire something that comes from cities and is modern. The response of most of the architects was, "I don't understand what he is trying to achieve."

One architect's criticism of the building was that it contradicted the architectural principle of the twentieth century, according to which both the structure and the material should be expressed. Fortunately, however, some avant-garde architects of my own generation encouraged me, saying: "Though we do not really understand what you are doing, it seems that you are dealing with some important issues."

I was totally absorbed with the idea that I should design something according to my three principles. I did not know how these principles could be related to modern architecture or what exactly characterizes my design method, but I just decided to ignore such misgivings. There was a reason for this. I knew from other architects that, although as a historian and a critic it was fine for me to analyze and discuss the designs of other people or past styles, it would probably have a negative effect if I applied this critique to my own works. Such critical words might be like exposing fermenting alcohol to the light: the simmering within myself might impede the activity of the yeast.

Later on, I gave various "logical" explanations regarding my design, but these explanations were based on my reactions to comments by architects of my generation or to questions from journalists. Almost once a year somebody came to me who liked my unconventional design, and I completed one project per year.

Six Learnings from the Neolithic Age

As a historian, I have studied, without specific preferences, architecture ranging from Ancient Greece to the twentieth century. However, after I had started my architectural work, I concentrated only on what I liked.

I lost interest in architecture after the Renaissance and also in Gothic buildings. Fascinated by Pre-Romanesque architecture, I visited some examples in Puglia, in southern Italy, and also some stave churches in Norway. I found this architecture increasingly intriguing and researched rare examples in Italy and Spain. My interest went back further to Early Christian monuments, to Ancient Rome, Greece and Egypt, and even to the standing stones of the Neolithic Age.

Obsessed with the search for standing stones, I traveled to Ireland, Scotland, England, France, Corsica, Sardinia and Malta. I also went to many places in Japan, Taiwan, North America and Mexico.

I suspect that no other architect or historian of architecture in the world has seen as many standing stones as I have. I came to understand the following things:

1. During the Neolithic Age, the stones were constructed in the same way everywhere in the world.

2. It is highly probable that wooden pillars were raised first and that afterwards the wood was replaced by stone.

3. Standing stones were sites of sun worship that represent a strong awareness of the sun.

4. The standing stones were constructed with a keen awareness of their visual impression.

5. To evoke an expression, it was enough to raise stones that lay on the earth due to their gravity.

6. The expressions of the humans of the Paleolithic Age can be found in the cave paintings of Lascaux and Altamira, and those of the humans of the Neolithic Age in standing stones.

After giving it some more thought, I realized that it is primarily height that characterizes standing stones. Perhaps it is this expression of height that is behind the interest in tall constructions that humans developed later on. The Bronze Age comes after the Neolithic Age. It was during this period that the pyramids were built. As is well known, a pyramid was the place where the souls of pharaohs returned to the sun. The height and the form of the pyramid were necessary for this return. Standing stones for sun worship stretched up to the sun, as if they were longing for it, and finally formed a pyramid.

Histories of architecture often begin with pyramids. This is understandable because they were the first beautiful manmade, three-dimensional objects. However, this expression of height–the essence of the pyramids–originates from earlier time; its history begins with the standing stones.

This difference between standing stones and pyramids highlights an interesting phenomenon. Since the Bronze Age, humans have created huge constructions in Egypt, Iran, India and China. The constructions had various styles and purposes. They were peculiar expressions of different ancient civilizations. The sameness found among the standing stones of the Neolithic Age thus disappeared in the Bronze Age.

After the Bronze Age, people created many different kinds of architecture around the world and up until the nineteenth century. The styles reflected the areas, states, cultures and religions to which they belonged. Eventually this period came to an impasse and lost its creativity, allowing Art Nouveau, which emerged at the end of the nineteenth century, to spread throughout the world. Finally, through the birth of the Bauhaus, the universal architecture of the twentieth century was established.

When we look back at the long history of architecture, we thus find that there are two international styles: one at the beginning of the Stone Age and one which emerged during the twentieth century. The history of architecture is like candy wrapped in paper. The two international architectures are at its tightly bound ends, and the various tastes of unique cultures are wrapped inside.

From this historical perspective, my architecture can be said to be inspired by the Stone Age; it aims at the first international style while it comes from the middle of the second international style. When I started my architectural work, I did not think about such things. It is only now–after twenty years of pondering the matter–that I have come to understand the process in this way.

Let us look back again at the international architecture of the Stone Age. The Stone Age is divided into the Paleolithic and the Neolithic periods. The former is an era of hunting and gathering, the latter of farming and breeding. As I have already mentioned, architectural expressions during the Paleolithic Age can be found in the cave paintings of Lascaux and Altamira and, during the Neolithic Age, in the standing pillars of wood or stone.

The motifs of cave paintings are limited to hunting scenes, which depict animals like mammoths, bison, horses and deer. Thus, cave paintings are considered to be related to beliefs in an Earth Mother goddess. Humans who believed in such a goddess worshiped the rapidly repeating cycles of life and death. Standing pillars only represent sites for the sun worship of masculine gods.

When animals appeared on cave walls and ceilings, reflected in the firelight, humans must have felt the contentment of being surrounded by a gentle, transcending force. I think that it was through this feeling of being wrapped in surfaces of walls that the inner space of architecture was born.

The birth of the external space can, as already stated, be traced back to the Neolithic Age. During this period, humans first became conscious of architecture's interior space through beliefs in an Earth Mother goddess, depicted in the caves of the Paleolithic Age. Afterwards, they came to know the exterior space of architecture through worship under the glittering sun of the Neolithic Age. The interior space probably also had an effect on emotions, and the exterior space on the mind.  

Seven Architectural Qualities

The history of architecture began with these two kinds of spaces. It produced the pyramids of the Bronze Age, Greek and Roman temples and the Christian churches of the Middle Ages. However, we should not forget that besides the religious architecture, which created homes for gods, there was also the architecture of homes for humans.

Thus, how did humans, and not gods, live during the period of the first international architecture? In prehistoric times, humans needed water first of all, and not homes. Humans gathered near the water. Then they used fire. These were not campfires for larger groups, as we would think of them today, but fire sites for a family unit or a single person. Fires belonged to individuals. Humans needed water, fire and then shelter.

Caves were used as shelters. However, we should be aware of the fundamental difference between these shelters and the caves in honor of the Earth Mother goddess. If you visit such caves in Lascaux or Altamira, you will find that in their depths there is absolutely no light, while the caves for shelters were terrace-like spaces or cavities formed in a rock with an opening to the outside. On the plains where no suitable caves could be found, humans made shelters out of collected tree branches and grass which they bound together into a semispherical form. In areas where it did not get cold, the fires were outside and humans concealed themselves in small shelters at night or during rainfall.

I have seen such shelters in Africa. The tribes smear cattle feces on branches and grass to improve their waterproof properties. I am quite sure that in prehistoric times humans also gradually learned to smear mud on branches and leaves. During the Stone Age, humans came to recognize the following seven features of architecture:

1. Space surrounded by walls.

2. Pillars stretching toward the sky.

3. Fire sites.

4. Spaces within large caves that possess an opening to the outside.

5. Small spaces in which to retreat.

6. Collected natural materials.

7. An expression of things made by oneself.

My architecture combines these seven qualities and reinforces them with modern science and technology. For example, the Jinchō Moriya Historical Museum combines the first, the second and the sixth, the Kumamoto Agricultural College combines the first, the second, the sixth and the seventh, the Yakisugi House (Charred Cedar House) combines the second, the third, the fourth, the sixth and the seventh, the Takasugi-an Teahouse (Too-High Teahouse) combines the second, the third, the fifth, the sixth and the seventh.

Six Features of a tea house

Finally, I would like to talk about my interest in teahouses as minimal spaces. In the past few years, I have invested a lot of energy in these spaces. Spaces used exclusively for drinking tea exist only in Japan–and are generally extremely small. In these tiny spaces, there is a recessed space, called toko, to display pictures, handicrafts and flowers, and there is also a small fireplace cut into the floor. The spaces are small, but they are big enough to be architectural spaces. Visually, I do not feel bored or cramped at all within these spaces, in which over the course of four hours, I drink a strong tea before and a weak tea after a light meal.

Sen no Rikyū (1522-1591) designed this unique space. He was a rich merchant of the international trading of Sakai before he learned Zen and became a master of the tea ceremony. He was the tea ceremony teacher of the most powerful ruler of Japan, Hideyoshi Toyotomi. Rikyū radically minimized the size of teahouses which had, previously, measured around two point seven square meters. Together with Hideyoshi, he would spend four hours at a time in such a room. Rikyu's tea house displays the following architectural characteristics:

1. Minimal size, the maximal size being two point seven square meters and the minimal size one point eight square meters.

2. Enclosed space with a very small entrance. There are windows through which light enters the room, but they are covered with paper. It is thus not possible to look outside.

3. A fireplace; the place is small, but it is possible to make a fire and to boil water.

4. A small low entrance (nijiriguchi) measuring sixty-six centimeter by sixty-three centimeters, just big enough to pass through it.

5. Simple materials or anything readily available like bent pillars or mud walls mixed with bamboo or straw.

6. Building methods which are not based on the advanced techniques of carpenters, but on those used for constructions by amateurs.

Up to four or five persons, regardless of their social status, profession or age, secluded themselves in these small and humble hut-like spaces, in which even the most powerful ruler made the fire himself and prepared and served tea while receiving guests.

The materials and the construction methods used were certainly simple, but masters of the tea ceremony devoted a lot of time weighing up the subtle differences between materials, details of structures, the design and its proportions. As a result, the cost of construction per square meter was high, and even today a teahouse costs fifteen times more than a normal house. Some of the utensils used for the tea ceremony were masterpieces, selected by Rikyū himself and usually of considerable value. They were presented to feudal lords who had distinguished themselves during a war.

I wondered why Rikyū tried so passionately to design an extremely small tea house of one point eight square meters and decided that he probably wanted to reach the utmost limits of a house or of an architecture. It reminds me of Leonardo da Vinci's famous drawing of the proportions of the human body in connection with Vitruvius's book on architecture. A human body with outstretched legs and arms fits exactly into Rikyu's teahouse of one point eight square meters. I am pretty sure that Rikyu had the same idea as Leonardo and that he wanted to put this idea into practice. Being younger than Leonardo, Rikyū was actually a contemporary of Michelangelo.

Rikyū was not only interested in size. He also wanted to light a fire in a very small room and to make many things by himself with easily available materials. I think that he consciously searched for the origin or the essence of architecture. Having no interest at all in tea ceremonies, I worked on minimal architecture in the form of the teahouse only because I, too, was searching for the essence of architecture.

Today's architecture follows the path of excessive growth and industrialization. As a historian of architecture, I admit that this is an inevitable phenomenon of the twentieth century. However, when I visit modern architecture, I am often disappointed when I look at the buildings more closely, even though they might have looked very good from a distance. Their dimensions and the boldness of their forms are surprising, but they do not touch the heart.

The architectural movement of the twenty-first century can probably only renew itself if it considers, once again, the origin of this thing called architecture. I believe that only architecture that goes through this process will regain the ability to touch the souls of the people who visit it. 

This text first appeared in 2012 in the publication Terunobu Fujimori Architect on the occasion of the exhibition of the same name at the Museum Villa Stuck, Munich. Daidalos would like to thank Terunobu Fujimori for allowing us to republish this text, and we would also like to thank the publisher Hatje Cantz for their kind permission.

We would also like to thank Samuel Michaëlsson for his long-standing collaboration with Fujimori that enabled the republishing of this essay, as well as Marc Goodwin for his photographic documentation. This text along with an essay by professor emerita Dana Buntrock, as well as an extensive conversation with Fujimori was published in Swedish in ARCHE 90-91 in 2024.