From 2012 to 2016, I lived and studied in Tokyo after growing up in Lawrence, Kansas. While Lawrence's wide-open spaces and suburban life felt stifling and isolating during my teenage years, Tokyo's density and efficient public transport gave me a newfound sense of freedom. This shift during my formative years invigorated my desire to become an architect and highlighted how environments profoundly shape our identities, echoing Juhani Pallasmaa's insight on architecture and memory.
“The elements of architecture are not visual units or gestalt; they are encounters, confrontations that interact with memory.”
This perspective underscores how architecture amplifies our emotional states, fostering a dynamic dialogue between space and perception. When melancholy sets in, even the most beautiful environments can transform into exquisite prisons. John Milton captures this notion well:
“The mind can make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven.”
Nostalgia complicates this relationship further. Derived from the Greek terms nóstos (return home) and álgos (pain or longing), nostalgia reflects a yearning for an idealized past—both of ourselves and the environments we once inhabited. This longing intensifies the emotional resonance of spaces, intertwining memories with architectural experiences and transforming our interactions with the built environment.
Walter Benjamin’s analysis of the city as a palimpsest of history, memory, and power encapsulates the intricate interplay between built environments and human experience. He posits that cities are layered texts, where each stratum reveals the social and historical narratives that shape our perceptions. In this context, spaces that once embodied profound meaning increasingly resemble commodities, engineered for efficiency rather than fostering authentic human connection.
As I navigate the streets of Tokyo, I acutely feel this dissonance. While architectural forms remain unchanged, they transform into backdrops for my evolving sense of self, echoing my gradual loss of personal connection to the city. Benjamin's concept of the flâneur resonates deeply with me; as I wander through familiar neighborhoods, I embody both observer and participant, tracing the outlines of my past experiences. This struggle has illuminated that much of my idealization of Tokyo stems not from the intrinsic qualities of its environments but from the richness of the social interactions and cultural engagements that once animated them.
This tension is poignantly illustrated in the film Perfect Days, where the protagonist, Hiraku, a toilet cleaner, discovers beauty in the simplicity of life, even within a role that typically evokes societal pity. Despite a life seemingly marked by accomplishment, Hiraku embraces his current position with grace, uncovering unexpected fulfillment in aspects of existence often overlooked. Inspired by Hiraku’s connection to the specially designed toilet blocks featured in the film, my visit to Tokyo became a quest to experience these spaces firsthand. The Tokyo Toilet Project, which brought together designers from Japan and around the world to create unique amenity blocks in the Shibuya-ku area, stands as a testament to the elevation of the ordinary to the profound.
Among the highlights of my exploration were the timber-clad toilet blocks in Nabeshima Shoto Park, designed by Kengo Kuma. The large cedar boards seamlessly blend with the lush surroundings, creating a harmonious atmosphere. Another striking addition to the urban landscape is Nao Tamura’s amenity block near Ebisu Station, with its bright red steel blades and reflective wall panels. Yet, as I continued my journey, I found myself increasingly drawn to the ‘ordinary’ and ‘in-between’ spaces—places that were beautiful in their unintentional design, their pragmatism, utility, and seemingly organic formation.
My goal became to capture a sense of equality among the ordinary, the unique pavilions, and the significant landmarks, placing them all on the same emotional plane. By photographing these overlooked spaces alongside the carefully designed public facilities, I began to shift from simply seeking inspiration to embracing the inherent beauty in all environments. This mirrored my personal journey of learning to appreciate emotions, with their fluctuations of happiness, sadness, nostalgia, and occasional bitterness.
The ‘ordinary’ areas—overgrown canal embankments, apartments adorned with vine-like metallic pipes, and open fields framed by power lines stretching toward the horizon—evoke a dream-like quality as I navigate them. In these spaces, I found a quiet, unspoken poetry, a reflection of life’s subtlety and imperfection, much like the thoughts and feelings we experience in our internal worlds.
This return has reminded me that beauty is not solely found in the grandeur of architectural highlights but also in the quiet elegance of the overlooked and ordinary. Each space, whether designed with intent or shaped by time, holds potential for connection and reflection. Just as Hiraku discovers joy in his role, I am learning to find meaning in the simple, everyday experiences that shape my identity as both an architect and an individual. In navigating this intricate landscape of memory, emotion, and design, I embrace the complexity of my journey, allowing the ordinary to illuminate my path forward.