An architect who wants to erase architecture, to make it almost imperceptible. That is a sin. A crime. An egoistic object that rarely has a connection with the environment.

The Japanese architect Kengo Kuma approaches architecture as something alien to Japanese culture, and he does so using the idea of sinfulness borrowed from the Western cultural sphere. Disputes regarding the expansion of the Western concept of architecture and its precise translation into Japanese have existed since the beginning of the 20th century and have not abated. The assertion about the need to erase architecture is radical and attracts attention because Kengo Kuma and Associates is one of the most influential architectural firms not only in Japan, but also in the world. Within it, more than two hundred employees work on about one hundred projects in Japan, Europe, the USA, China, and other Asian countries. KKAA designs buildings, engages in urban and landscape design, experiments with materials and technologies, manufactures tableware, toys, and jewellery, and creates scenography for exhibitions. Kengo Kuma leads a design laboratory at the University of Tokyo. He writes. KKAA has become a well-known brand.

The stadium for the 2020 Tokyo Olympic Games is the firm's most notable current project. After two years of intensive work and collaboration with Zaha Hadid's firm, the Tokyo government halted the architect's design at the last minute and, in a repeat competition, decided to cooperate with Kengo Kuma in the future. Because Kengo Kuma is an architect whose opinion is listened to, at least in Japan, and his expressed idea of humanising the environment and using local resources is currently relevant even in a project as large-scale as an Olympic stadium.

Kengo Kuma has been able to virtuously and seamlessly delegate responsibilities in such a large office while simultaneously maintaining strong general ideological guidelines and clarity of opinion in the public sphere. In the essay “The Era of the Garden” (in “Celestial Gardens: Kyoto Imperial Palace And Villa”, 2017) and the manifesto “Anti-object: The Dissolution and Disintegration of Architecture” (2008), published 10 years ago, Kuma argues that people have begun to tire of the oversaturation of material things and want to feel the human element, emotions, moods, and conversations. His idea of the era of the garden seems not only to take a sharp stance against self-sufficient criminal objects in the environment but also gives at least a hint that creating a scenography of feeling is much more important than highlighting the architecture itself. Historically in Japan, boasting about a lavish architectural object is in bad taste, whereas tending a refined garden is a respectful and thoughtful way of creating atmosphere and human relationships.

If you happen to be in Tokyo, you can easily sense this at the Nezu Museum: only moods remain in the memory, walking along a row of bamboo, the alternation of light and shadow rhythms, rain dripping from the roof, iris flowers in the garden, and mossy Buddha statues, while in the background somewhere—the always bustling noises of the Aoyama neighbourhood. The building is a thoughtful intermediary, the necessary background for scenographing atmospheres and situations. During the first few visits, you might not even truly notice the building. A couple of years from now, when the construction of a traditional art museum in Manila, the Philippines, is completed, the idea of the garden will perhaps have already been replaced by another. Maybe that is where one will best be able to feel what atmospheric scenography means to Kengo Kuma.

The KKAA office in Tokyo is located in one of the city's liveliest parts—Aoyama, not far from the Nezu Museum; right nearby is also a building designed in the late 90s with an improvised eight-storey-high Doric column, and a whole series of other buildings by the architect. The view from Kengo Kuma's office window also overlooks a cemetery. It seems like a completely peaceful and organic part of the city's intense events. In spring, cherry blossoms bloom among the stone monuments, memorial trees, and little paths. The swirling of the white petals is a reminder of everything fleeting and intangible, and only a block away, the new Olympic stadium is under construction.

Ilze Paklone

Rīgas Laiks: Is architecture alien to the Japanese mind?

Kengo Kuma: Is architecture alien to the Japanese mind… That is a good question. Before Western culture reached Japan, we did not have the concept of architecture or the architect. We only had carpenters¹. And builders. There were no architects at all. For us, the main thing is the landscape, and after that—the garden plan. And the building belongs to the landscape. This thought is at the foundation of our environment. However, after Western culture flowed into Japan in the mid-19th century, a fundamental conflict arose between the traditional and the new thought. In 1868, the Meiji era began, the government opened new universities, and European lecturers began to teach architecture. I believe that the currently existing Japanese state education system is not at all suitable for us as a nation. Traditional thought is still very useful to us. It can solve environmental problems, and it means respect for craftsmanship as a tradition. This still helps us a great deal.

RL: In a way, you are confirming that architecture is alien to the Japanese mind.

Kuma: Yes.

RL: When I read your interviews and writings, I discovered that you use the word “architecture” in a way that is very unusual, at least for the English language. It seems that by architecture, you almost mean the construction process and the result. And that is all. Am I right?

Kuma: Yes, that is my understanding. The construction process and the result.

RL: When you said that in a traditional Japanese environment, gardens and the presence of nature are more important than buildings, did you also apply that to cities?

Kuma: Yes. Even in a city, the overall environment, which includes the garden and the street, the layout of the streets… these things were considered as important as the building itself. The concept of the human natural environment…

RL: Humans are not animals. They cannot live in trees, caves, and gardens. They need shelter—a place to take cover from rain and cold.

Kuma: Yes. The concept of the human natural environment is the foundation of urban planning. However, the human natural environment and architecture were different things in Japan. During the Renaissance, architects planned everything geometrically. That approach did not exist in Japan. Even in a city, planning was based on very simple rules. Buildings were planned and built by carpenters. That is slightly different from architecture.

RL: The Bible, although it is a collection of books, begins with the Garden of Eden and ends with the heavenly city of Jerusalem. In a way, the holy text of Christianity is structured as a path from the garden to the city. How would that fit into your understanding of the world—the portrayal of human development as a movement from the garden to the city?

Kuma: This thought seems strange to the Japanese. In the Bible, the garden is considered a primitive, low-level situation.

RL: That is Paradise. A time of innocence.

Kuma: Yes, of course, that is the Bible… There is a hierarchy there where the city is above the garden, there is a certain development. For the Japanese, the garden and the city are not in a hierarchy. We do not have that idea of development.

RL: What is the role of humans in nature? Nature would be as it is even without humans. Nature does not need humans.

Kuma: I do not think so… Humans are part of nature. And nature is part of humans. It is impossible to separate humans and nature.

RL: In Hokusai's drawings and also in other Japanese drawings, humans are insignificant. There is Mount Fuji and a human in a small boat. Or huge waves and a tiny human. In a way, the human's role in nature is insignificant. Is that also your understanding?

Kuma: Yes. Humans are part of nature.

RL: But not particularly important.

Kuma: I think that scale is not an indication of importance. However, it always indicates that one must be humble before nature. That is our foundation.

RL: You have said for many years that your goal is to erase architecture. Why?

Kuma: Because architecture—the concept imported from the West—has to a large extent destroyed our landscape. It has also largely destroyed our culture. Large concrete walls completely destroyed our cities. Our leading architects—Isozaki, Kurokawa—these people have misled the Japanese people in various ways. I would like to return to the situation before that.

RL: So you would like to erase architecture as something alien to the Japanese mind.

Kuma: Yes.

RL: Do you want to erase architecture in any other sense as well?

Kuma: I want to erase concrete buildings and replace them with buildings of a human scale, built from natural materials.

RL: One of the causes of the popularity of concrete buildings in the 20th century was thrift. Concrete buildings were cheaper and faster to build. Given the increase in the number of people, was that not, after all, a very practical solution?

Kuma: I think it was not just thrift. It is a certain attitude towards the environment. The construction costs of wooden buildings are actually lower than those of concrete buildings—even today.

RL: But wooden buildings are more fragile, they can catch fire more easily.

Kuma: We recently discovered a solution to the problem of building fires, we have a new technology. Moreover, we can use a prefabrication system to build a wooden building faster than a concrete one.

RL: In your ideal future, all concrete buildings would be replaced by wooden buildings.

Kuma: Yes.

RL: But that would still be architecture, wouldn't it?

Kuma: I am not just talking about the material. I am talking about the relationship with the landscape, the relationship with the street. If we tried to create some kind of harmony between these things, we could replace architecture with simply buildings.

RL: That means architects will not be needed.

Kuma: We need builders with a high level of planning skill.

RL: Planning skill?

Kuma: Yes. A builder must know the material well, must know how to manage human life, must know the building maintenance system. Japanese builders have had such knowledge for a long time.

RL: But this skill is disappearing, as you have warned recently.

Kuma: It is disappearing. But it has not completely disappeared yet.

RL: You believe that there is hope.

Kuma: I truly hope that we will recover.

RL: That is very reminiscent of Don Quixote's hope of defeating the windmills.

Kuma: (Laughs.) I do not think so. I have many friends. Don Quixote had only one friend—Sancho Panza. I work together with many colleagues.

RL: What are the main intellectual influences outside of architecture that have shaped your thinking?

Kuma: I have read Lévi-Strauss. And in conversations with my lecturer Hiroshi Hara… Hiroshi Hara and Arata Isozaki are of the same generation, but their attitude towards architecture is completely opposite. Isozaki largely served the idea of the architect. He also tried to add something of the artist to the architect. The main reason was probably that his wife—the sculptor Aiko Miyawaki—was a famous artist, and he had learned some artistic methods. He used that to raise the status of the architect, making him something like a god. He tried to be a god.

RL: A god-creator.

Kuma: A god-creator. And now the artist occupies a very high position. People consider some of the world's most famous architects to be like gods. Isozaki tried to transfer this system into the field of architecture. Hara's approach was different. He tried to learn a lot from villages. He conducted research on Japanese villages and the countryside. And also on the world's rural areas. Hara went on a journey to the Sahara desert to study the buildings there. This journey is one of my starting points. Hara…

RL: What did you learn from the desert—from the Sahara?

Kuma: There were no architects there. But they created a beautiful environment. They completely and beautifully combined the desert and the buildings. And besides… it does not look nostalgic, but rather very futuristic. The villages left a huge impression on me.

RL: Excluding Lévi-Strauss… Although—what exactly did you gain from Lévi-Strauss?

Kuma: He discovered a very complex system in the village. A village is not a primitive human system. In my opinion, for an architect, such a perspective is very necessary.

RL: You mean the complexity of village life?

Kuma: Yes. This complexity is very refined.

RL: Excluding Lévi-Strauss, has your mind been influenced by any other philosopher or school of thought?

Kuma: Okakura Kakuzō—he wrote “The Book of Tea”². It is a great book. “The Book of Tea” is based on the theory of the famous 16th-century tea master Sen no Rikyū and was published in the USA in 1906. He wrote the book in English to spread the tea ceremony to the world. It became very influential in the West. Frank Lloyd Wright read it and after that could not do anything else. He felt that everything was already there in Japan. I think that Japanese culture is very complex, very refined. But we did not have a good philosopher to explain it to the world. Kakuzō was brilliant—he was able to explain it very clearly, very logically. Kakuzō strongly influenced Frank Lloyd Wright's architectural style. In 1906, he created the Robie House³. Step by step, he created his own style, which had been strongly influenced by Japanese philosophy, the Japanese tea ceremony.

RL: Would you say that your development has been influenced by Buddhist views or attitudes?

Kuma: I have learned a lot from Buddhist views. But what was to my benefit was that I studied in a Jesuit school.

RL: That is as alien to Japan as possible.

Kuma: Yes. The Jesuits arrived in Japan in the 17th century…

RL: But they were thrown out.

Kuma: Yes, but after the Second World War, they returned. I studied in a Jesuit school for six years and learned a lot from them. I started thinking about the difference between Buddhism and Christianity. For most Japanese, Buddhism is simply a part of everyday life. They do not want to think about what is Buddhism and what is Shintoism. I felt that I had to think about what is Buddhism and what is Shintoism. About the difference between the West and the East. And the Jesuits provided me with such a viewpoint.

RL: What was your first understanding of the difference between Buddhism and Christianity?

Kuma: Christianity taught me the concept of sin. In Buddhism, there is no such thought.

RL: Did you accept this concept of sin?

Kuma: At first, it was not easy to accept, but without knowing about the concept of sin, I would not have been able to find my way. Because many point out that the concept of sin is the foundation of my architectural practice. (Laughs.)

RL: Really?

Kuma: Because I have often written that architecture is something like a sin in the environment. Large concrete buildings destroy everything, that is a sin.

RL: In Christianity, sin has been understood in various ways; there are two main depictions of sin: the first is sin as a crime, the second—sin as a disease. When you encountered this concept, which was new to you, how did you imagine it in your mind? As a crime or as a disease?

Kuma: More as a crime.

RL: Against what?

Kuma: Against nature.

RL: In Western imagination, there is the image of the great architect, the creator of the Universe. This thought is used very actively in Freemasonry and some other circles. For a moment, imagine that this is the truth—that the whole Universe has been built by an architect and it is in your power to accept or not accept it, as if you had ordered it. What would you improve in the construction of the Universe?

Kuma: I think that my ability to help the Universe is very limited. In my limited world, I try to do everything in my power. Improving the entire Universe is impossible. However, in very narrow areas, we can change a few things slightly.

RL: But when you say that it is impossible to improve the Universe, you are in a way admitting that it is not perfect and that it needs to be improved. Does it need to be?

Kuma: Yes, I think so.

RL: In what area?

Kuma: As an area. The area is always given to me. I cannot choose the area.

RL: You would like it if you were able to choose. That would be better.

Kuma: If I am able to choose, it is better. But basically, it is impossible to choose. Because the world is huge, but I am small.

RL: Let us return to the narrow world of architecture. In my simple approach to architecture, I see conflicting trends, especially over the last two centuries. One trend emphasises form, another—function. It seems that you are not particularly interested in either form or function. At least you have written that experience, phenomena, and events are more important than form or function. Am I right?

Kuma: Yes. The previous generation of architects—Arata Isozaki, Kenzo Tange, Kisho Kurokawa—wrote about form. For them, form in architecture is the main thing. But I believe that form is something like the result of many small architectural projects. At the beginning of design, I think about materiality, about the material. The material and the construction project work together. After these processes, the form emerges naturally. It is simply a result. I do not think that the process starts with form.

RL: I am a bit confused by your statement that you start with the material. I thought that you start with the location, but the material is the second step.

Kuma: No, no. I visit the location, I travel around it a little. I meet with the masters, the craftsmen who live in that location. They work with local materials. In some parts of Japan, they produce rice paper, or they have special trees growing there; there is specific land and specific materials, and craftsmanship—it is all combined. After these encounters have taken place, I start the design from such a whole. The material and the location are deeply connected. Always.

RL: It seems that there was a period in your biography when stone seemed problematic to you as a material. Why was that?

Kuma: Because people used stone in postmodernism.

RL: They also used stone for the pyramids, and that was four thousand years ago.

Kuma: Yes, but the use of stone in the pyramids and in postmodernism differs. In postmodernism, people used it as a decoration to make the building more visual. And then I looked at stone… as decoration. But when I met the client for the Stone Museum4 and he asked me to use stone, I was confused. Then I started thinking about what stone is. True, in the pyramids, stone is not decoration. Stone is something like the basic unit of building construction. It is a very honest material. It is not decoration. And then I discovered my own way of using stone.

RL: It seems that fragility, the image of fragility, is important in many of your projects. What is your attitude towards the ancient Vitruvian ideal of *firmitas*, or durability? One of the ideals he believed was worth following was a building's compliance with *firmitas*: it must be strong, resistant to the changes of time, and exist through the centuries. How do you relate to this ideal?

Kuma: Of course, in architecture, we try to achieve durability, but it is never perfect. Earthquakes and tsunamis teach the Japanese that achieving perfect durability is impossible. The forces of nature are much stronger than a so-called strong building. From our perspective, Vitruvius's comment is quite… arrogant.

RL: It is not a comment, it is the goal of architecture. The Colosseum and other classical monuments were built in accordance with this ideal, and they still stand. Some of them have stood for two thousand years. But perhaps the fact that Japan is located in a highly seismically active zone has special significance. What have the Japanese learned from living in a seismically active zone?

Kuma: The Japanese have learned the lesson that we are very weak. We cannot stand against such power.

RL: How important is the fact that Japan could disappear after a major earthquake to your thinking?

Kuma: It is possible.

RL: And what is to be done?

Kuma: I cannot do anything there. You cannot do anything there. (Laughs.)

RL: You cannot do anything to prevent it, but do the Japanese think about it at the government level?

Kuma: No. The foundation of Japanese politics is solving short-term issues. In that sense, we have not changed at all since ancient times. (Laughs.) We simply pray to the gods, pray for tomorrow at the temple. But not for a longer period of time.

RL: I have not been in any of your buildings, I have only seen them in pictures. And as an observer from the outside, it looks to me that the message you are conveying is more important than functionality. That is my impression—that by building these buildings, you want to say something, convey a message, teach something.

Kuma: The idea of functionality was to divide space, allotting each space to one function—a very simple approach. That did not make people happy. What I want to provide is… a human atmosphere. I simply want to create space where people would gladly gather and enjoy it. And I believe that people love my space, not the architectural form. They like the special atmosphere in my spaces, which are very open, transparent, and very warm. I always try to get people into the space, and I am happy when I see how people gather in the space.

RL: Openness towards nature and pores, and holes, and gaps… they have that… They let in winds, sun, sounds, and so on. But are there not moments in your life when you want to close the window, when you do not want to hear the street or the wind, and simply want to be alone? Do you not have such moments?

Kuma: Sometimes I want to close myself off, but… In that case, I do not want to stay there. I want to leave for a quieter space.

RL: But how would you create a quiet space? A space for meditation.

Kuma: Actually, my ideal for a meditation space is a walk in solitude, not a closed space. I like to walk.

RL: So you think while walking.

Kuma: Walking helps the brain provide me with new thoughts. I do not like sitting in one place.

RL: Do you remember the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche? Towards the end of his life, he said that all thoughts that occur while sitting are poisonous.

Kuma: (Laughs.) Poisonous?

RL: That was his critical comment on a large part of Western philosophy, which has been created by people who sit, think, and write.

Kuma: (Laughs.)

RL: He was like you. He thought while walking. But tell me, why do the Japanese sit on the floor? Could they not invent a chair?

Kuma: Because it is the most efficient way to use space. If there is furniture, the space loses its adaptability and seems narrower. If the space is taken up by furniture, it looks very narrow. If we do not have furniture, only a tatami mat, it is a beautiful emptiness. There is little land in Japan, and people have to live very close together. They want to use a small space as a large emptiness.

RL: Would you say that sitting on a chair or on the floor influences one's way of thinking?

Kuma: In my opinion, it does. If we sit on the floor, the limitations created by furniture disappear. If there is furniture, we must accept a certain order. Furniture demands something. Table in the centre, something in the centre. That demands something. If there are only floors, we have freedom.

RL: How do the Japanese imagine freedom?

Kuma: There are no limitations in freedom.

RL: But physiology and the environment always limit. We are limited from all sides.

Kuma: Yes, nature itself is a limitation. But the Japanese do not suffer human-made limitations.

RL: That is beautiful. So freedom from human-made limitations. Would you say that the presence of that kind of freedom is important in the buildings you design?

Kuma: I do not want to limit people. I want to minimise limitations as much as possible. That is why I do not like walls. Heavy walls limit a lot. I prefer porosity, openness—especially on the first floor.

RL: But perhaps that is a morbid claustrophobia?

Kuma: Claustrophobia? Hmm… I always accept some kind of limitation. Limitations with soft screens are ideal. But it is true—perhaps it is fear…

RL: Le Corbusier, who was one of the most active supporters of concrete buildings, did, at the end of his life, build a small cabin⁵ in which there is not a single concrete construction. Do you think that there was something dishonest in concrete architecture? Something hypocritical? Using Le Corbusier's example: he did not want to end his life in a concrete building—he wanted to live in a solitary cabin.

Kuma: Le Corbusier lived in the 20th century. He wisely captured the essence of his period. And then he created his beautiful works of art in concrete because people needed concrete at that time. But he had a special talent for achieving harmony with the environment. Ronchamp⁶, La Tourette⁷—there, the harmony with the environment is stunning. He did not want to create a separate box. He was a genius. Finally, he arrived at a wooden cabin, and this wooden cabin fits perfectly into the environment.

RL: You often write about the honesty of stone. Could you explain the concept of honesty in architecture? Kuma: I often mention dishonesty when criticising… finished concrete. Concrete as the basic, standard method of the 20th century, where a concrete shell, concrete core, and some kind of decorative material finish are used. The finish is for creating atmosphere. I think that is a hypocritical attitude. When I use stone, I try to use stone without a concrete background. That differs greatly from the usual way of building stone buildings. A stone building is actually not made of stone—it is a building with a stone shell.

RL: You mean stone buildings built over the last 50, 60 years? Because before that, stone was the main material.

Kuma: Yes, and I want to return to that.

RL: Here, for example, that church—Riga Cathedral?

Kuma: That is a very honest structure.

RL: Excluding Frank Lloyd Wright, the other architect who made me realise that architecture involves thinking was Gaudí. And when I entered Gaudí's Sagrada Família, I felt disgusted…

Kuma: (Laughs.)

RL: …by how what he had started was finished. He worked with real materials. But they finished it with concrete. Have you noticed that?

Kuma: Yes. I have noticed.

RL: That changes everything…

Kuma: Yes. Yes.

RL: …and destroys the initial thought. In your opinion, was there any justification for that, excluding considerations of thrift? What does that indicate about our time?

Kuma: Considerations of thrift and the pressure to meet a schedule. The project schedule always exerts pressure on us. That is ridiculous.

RL: You mentioned that Le Corbusier captured the essence of his time. How do you think, what is the essence of our time?

Kuma: We are moving from the industrial age to the post-industrial. And the essence of the post-industrial age is… the individual participates in everything. Participation. And in architecture, the “do it yourself” method is gaining popularity. People want to design and build their own space themselves.

RL: But most people are too stupid to do that.

Kuma: (Laughs.)

RL: Most people are unable to think about their own space. That is why they need designers, interior designers, and architects who think in their place.

Kuma: Asking a specialist is basically a 20th-century method. Because now…

RL: Now you can ask Google.

Kuma: (Laughs.) …people like to think for themselves.

RL: Saying that people like to think for themselves is a very optimistic generalisation.

Kuma: Yes, it is optimistic, but that is the tendency. Meanwhile, in my architecture, I try to implement experimental projects. The Umbrella project⁸ is about how everyone can create a pavilion for themselves. The structure is not heavy, so it can be taken along.

RL: Or inflated.

Kuma: Or inflated. The goal of these experimental projects is to show how easy it is to create space. I want to show them an example. That differs significantly from concrete. Concrete means large companies, specialists… Only they can build a concrete building. It requires special knowledge and experience. And then people are completely separated from construction. But in my experience… For my father, architecture was something like a hobby. We started with a very small cabin. Father asked carpenters to build the main construction and the roof, but we added the wooden floors and ceilings ourselves, we painted. We as a family built it ourselves. Then I wanted my own little corner, and in one summer we built one additional room. The next summer we built another room. I really enjoyed that process. That is not unusual in Japan.

RL: When you mentioned the essence of our post-industrial age—one of the ways to describe it is the digitalisation of everything. What would carpenters who work with wood do in the digital age? They probably won't manufacture computers from wood.

Kuma: But Japanese carpenters are very good at using computers. You know, there is a machining system—something like a 3D cutting system for joints—they work very successfully with this system!

RL: How far are we from 3D printing houses?

Kuma: I think that 3D printing is a very primitive system.

RL: Currently.

Kuma: Currently it is a primitive system. But the processing system I mentioned is a very complex 3D cutting system. We can use beautiful wood together with computer technology. I think that this direction is very interesting.

RL: Imagine that the Tokyo Metropolitan Government asks you to place reminders of our mortality in various places in Tokyo. What would you do?

Kuma: Mortality… I do not want to create a shrine or a temple. I think that is not necessary. It is more important to create a place for everyday enjoyment.

RL: That is so. But right now you are asked to think about something that would remind people of their mortality.

Kuma: I would use wood. Wood naturally shows that life is short—the colour of wood always changes. That is the main reason why I use wood—it is always changing. There, you have a lesson about our mortality.

RL: Two final questions. If you were to build your own cemetery, what would it look like?

Kuma: I have designed only a burial plot for my family. My father already rests there.

RL: And there is also a place for you?

Kuma: Yes, that will be my place. My grave is simply an L-shaped wall with a stone slab, and one can place flowers on the stone slab. It is 40 centimetres high, very simple. Someone mentioned that it looks like a trash can. (Laughs.)

RL: (Laughs.) But making the grave look like a trash can was not your goal.

Kuma: Not exactly. But I really liked this comment because I did not want to create some monumental stone construction.

RL: What is the most important thing you have understood in life?

Kuma: The limits of my abilities.

RL: Thank you.