Beauty of ambiguous architecture: Sou Fujimoto
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When he explains his works, he often uses some interesting words such as “森”,”謎な”,”わけのわからない.”
“森 (mori)” means forest. It is a whole, or a chaotic system made of a countless number of diverse organisms that come in every size. It’s especially interesting, Fujimoto points out, that it’s actually millions of very small elements that comprise a large whole with many layers and spheres that are constantly in flux. You approach a forest trying to understand in its entirety, but you never can really do that. It changes before you can understand what’s going on. Nature is is always ahead of you.
Fujimoto thinks that architecture is like creating a forest.
Serpentine Gallery Pavilion is a little bit like forests, although people describe it as clouds, rather than forests. He explains the excitement upon entering this architecture: you are surrounded by a structure made of steel grids of about 40 centimeters, which are assembled using different combinations of patterns. Since the pattern is not symmetric, you can feel your surroundings change drastically as you walk. He was determined to stick to very thin grids, in order to let subtle and dynamic beauty emerge.
”謎 (nazo) な ” is a bit difficult to translate. The closest word would be “mysterious,” or “quirky.” But Japanese use ”nazo” more casually to describe anything that you cannot define well, or is ambiguous. “わけのわからない (wakeno wakaranai)” is a bit like ”nazo,” and is used to describe something you cannot explain logically. If something is chaotic, irrational or doesn’t make sense, then it’s “wakeno wakaranai.” But that being said, ”nazo” or “wakeno wakaranai” are not necessarily negative. These words can also be used to describe something with magical potential that cannot be comprehended by an ordinary sense of cognition.
He often says “I like this architecture (often his own) because there’s something “nazo” or “wakeno wakaranai.” He says he likes Canterbury Cathedral because it’s the accumulation of hundreds of years’ worth of mysterious (or mythical), inconsistent, complicated details and evolving thinking process. By the same token, he likes the garden of Ginkaku-ji (The Silver Pavilion in Kyoto) because it’s full of different elements (trees, ponds, bushes etc) that are interwoven in an inexplicable, but beautiful way.
Left: Canterbury Cathedral by Josep Renalias (Own work) [CC BY-SA 2.5], via Wikimedia Commons
Right: Ginkakuji by Mith Huang [CC BY 2.0] via Flickr Creative Commons
While he must be brilliantly logical, scientific and mathematical, to be such an accomplished architect, he seems to be attracted to things that are irrational, incoherent, contradicting or quirky. (Again, I have to warn you that these words are not 100 percent negative in Japanese context. At the end of the day, Japanese have some deep-rooted reservations towards logical and rational things.) It is very interesting because architecture is inherently destined to be rational, logical and scientific in order to realize the solid structure that can support itself and protect the people enveloped in it. But Fujimoto loves things that are nazo and wakeno wakaranai, and plants those elements in his architecture. And surprisingly, the marriage of the two is soothing and cozy, rather than experimental and aggressive.
How does this work?
Fujimoto’s exhibit “Futures of Future” held in Tokyo in 2015. He says he cemented his concept of “architecture as forests” through this exhibit.
One of the clues can be found in how Fujimoto perceives nature. He was born and grew up in Hokkaido, a northern countryside of Japan. He traveled to Tokyo to study architecture. In a simple dualism, Hokkaido is a countryside, full of nature. Tokyo is highly developed and almost artificial. But he didn’t find those two to be very different. According to him, you can find fundamental similarities in how nature – for example a forest, one of his favorite natural phenomenon – is formed and how Tokyo has been developed.
Nature is comprised of diverse organisms, many of which come in small sizes. Even though a forest feels enormous and overwhelming, it’s actually an accumulation of small things such as weeds, leaves, birds or dew – if you see it up-close. And that’s the reason why you can still feel comfortable in forests, says Fujimoto. On the ground level most things are not intimidating, because they are small and fragile: their sizes are compatible with our own body, which is also small and fragile.
By the same token, Tokyo is made of a whole bunch of small things, according to Fujimoto. Just to be clear, the Tokyo he is talking about here is not the gigantic, futuristic, high-tech side of Tokyo, like Shibuya or Roppongi. He is talking about the other face of Tokyo – old, residential Tokyo, which is made of crisscrossing small streets and lanes, mixed zones filled with small commercial, industrial and residential buildings. It’s the Tokyo that Haruki Murakami described in “A Wild Sheep Chase:” one of those small districts where narrow, crisscrossing streets are clinging to the ground. In such areas, people would often travel on foot, or on bikes. Commercial activities come in smaller sizes in such an environment.
“Smallness” is the common element in nature and Tokyo, observes Fujimoto. And when an enormous number of small things co-exist and commingle to form something huge, like forests or cities, that huge formation becomes filled with things that are nazo and wakeno wakaranai. Those mysterious spots are where a whole bunch of small organisms, moving and working spontaneously, can encounter each other, collide and cross-pollinate. And since they are small, but with their own decision making process, you’ll never know what the outcome will be like.
He often blurs the boundaries of natural and artificial, nature and architecture using “smallness” as a mediator. And when small things start building up layers and layers of an undefined, dynamic world, the whole becomes one ambiguous potential. The undefined potential that could be organically nurtured by occupants.
In the next post, we will take a look at Fujimoto’s works that blend nature and architecture, leveraging “smallness.”
Reference
藤本壮介講演会 「未来の未来」
Japanese architect Sou Fujimoto designed many iconic projects, including the 2013 Serpentine Gallery Pavilion in London. His design provides unique coziness you don’t see in other architects, and it seems to come from his peculiar approach to blend seemingly opposing concepts/elements, notably natural and artificial, and nature and architecture. Through his design, he explores how modern people could potential interact with the outer environment.
