Genkan: Part 2

Religion, Culture and Mystery

Many Japanese pride themselves on maintaining an air of mystery, the sense of “something deeper,” which, they feel, lends them a certain power. While this same thinking applies in the case of Japanese homes as well, including deepening levels of privacy with the move to interior rooms, the ultimate source of the mystery of a house remains just that—a mystery. There is no inner sanctum, for instance, where this mystery is locked away. Historically, at least, the most mysterious part of a Japanese home is the genkan.

Actually, there are two mysteries here. The first, previously noted in the roots of the word itself, originates in the genkan’s ties to Zen, while the second larger, more pervasive mystique lurks in the mythical creation story of the Shinto faith.

The Power of Mystery

As the world’s oldest continuous hereditary monarchy, Japan boasts an imperial succession of one hundred twenty-six emperors over twenty-six centuries. One important value of the Regalia as cultural icons, having been entrusted to each of these emperors, lies not in any power ascribed to the artifacts themselves, but in the unbroken lineage of blood ancestors they symbolize. This historicity, in turn, becomes a model for rank-and-file Japanese, who see in their own lineage a parallel line of ancestral descent, and this continuity helps reinforce their identity as Japanese in moving forward. Moreover, despite the public never actually having seen the Regalia, the perennial popular interest generated by the boxed artifacts at enthronement ceremonies many years apart suggests a shared sense of proprietorship of the artifacts with their fellow countrymen as the emperor’s extended family.

The genkan, Amaterasu myth and Imperial Regalia are cultural icons that originated in the sacred realm. The difference today is that the genkan, as a physical space, became secularized as a mainstay of family life over the centuries, while the myth and artifacts have retained their sacred status in the national interest of imperial succession. The Regalia are not historical artifacts. (If they were, they would be accessible to the public in museums.) They are mythical, magical, from a realm where mystery is power, not a lab project to be analyzed. Based on the unbroken line of one hundred twenty-six emperors and counting, it seems clear this is one mystery that will not be resolved in the foreseeable future.

The mystery of the Japanese, as previously noted, is not to be found in the inner sanctum of their homes, although the ferocity with which they defend their domestic privacy might lead some to believe otherwise. The mystery is within each of them, and, in many, not on a conscious plane. It is the mystery that makes them unique. It is a myth with full participation. As long as no one reveals the secret—the secret that no Western academic can dispute with certainty—it retains its power. In short, the national secret is the national identity.

Week 9: The Final Week

So, here we are—the final week. It has been a fun ride on a long road, if anything, better than I had imagined. And while the apprenticeship itself didn’t last quite as long as I had hoped, I took away more than I anticipated. That said, let’s get to it.

On Monday morning, my mother and I headed for Kagoshima (Fig. 221), the prefecture’s capital and, at 600,000-plus residents, its largest city. I looked forward to seeing with my own eyes how Kagoshima’s urban architecture differed from the traditional style I had become accustomed to in the Satsuma countryside, but what caught my attention was not the architecture per se, or even the urban-rural contrast, but a more fundamental, international difference.

That difference was city planning, at least in terms of commercial and residential zoning laws. America’s zoning laws segregate private homes in neighborhoods away from commercial districts, which have their own zoning criteria. In Japan, on the other hand, residences and retail shops stand side-by-side, sometimes even as two areas in the same family structure. This all- in-one style is more prevalent in rural areas, but not uncommon in cities. I’ll research this further once I get home—just one more homework assignment I didn’t see coming.

Izumi Fumoto

Tuesday, we switched gears with a visit to Izumi Fumoto, once Kyushu’s dominant samurai stronghold. Construction got underway in the early 17th century, the beginning of the Edo Period—the height of samurai rule—and required thirty-five years to complete. This fumoto (see Week 6) sits at the base of a mountain between two rivers that flow together to encircle the settlement, affording it protection on all sides (Fig. 222). In anticipation of attack by rival clans, the streets were not laid out in straight lines, but at different angles to complicate the passage of large enemy wagons and other war vehicles (Fig. 223). In another defensive strategy, houses were built close to roads to give warriors more time to respond to surprise attacks. Not least of all, the houses themselves were built with sliding doors in all exterior-facing sections of the structure, and positioned such that those inside had a clear view of the house from one end to the other, as well as full visibility of the road from almost any point in the interior (Fig. 224).

The Edo period was one of uneasy peace, with the Tokugawa shogunate implementing an array of measures to maintain power: some to prevent revolts by provincial generals, others aimed at maintaining a constant state of readiness should hostilities break out. The house we toured, for instance, was a house built for war. In response to the shogun’s demands for ongoing training to maintain warrior skills at peak efficiency, it had an indoor archery range (Fig. 225), as well as secret hiding places below ground (Fig. 226) and over ceilings—ceilings elevated to allow unhindered swordplay should invaders breach the home (Fig. 227). Izumi Fumoto was the stronghold of strongholds. The only similarity I noticed to the samurai doctor’s house in Iriki Fumoto was the lowered sections of the two houses containing the kitchen that the women and children were restricted to in accordance with samurai social hierarchy.

Non-military features included full-house ventilation and access to sunlight. The main guest room had shōji-like sliding panels known as ranma (Fig. 228) above the full-sized shōji doors to improve air circulation while maintaining occupant privacy. Building larger shōji was not an option because shōji were made according to the standardized measurements of the shaku system. (See Week 4.) Another feature designed to control natural lighting took the form of long, grooved wooden sections affixed vertically to the furthest edge of the eaves extending over the engawa. (Figs. 229, 230) Each of these sections held two rows of foot-long vertical wooden slats and were positioned between pillars on the exterior side of the engawa. The slats in the exterior-facing row were fixed, while the interior slats slid open to let sunlight through. As demonstrated by our tour guide, the difference that opening the slats made in terms of increased natural light was significant. Parenthetically, these slatted sections were a courtesy available only on engawa eaves outside guest rooms.

Tokyo

My mother and I left for Tokyo on Friday for my three-day assessment of modern Japanese architecture. My first impression once there? Tokyo made Kagoshima look quaint. Metropolitan Tokyo extended as far as the eye could see in all directions, but at the same time, it did include pockets of tradition. Meiji Shrine (Fig. 231), for instance, in the heart of the city, was built in 1920 to commemorate Emperor Meiji, Japan’s 122nd emperor, who died in 1912. The shrine stands amidst a 170-acre evergreen forest of 120,000 trees donated by citizens throughout Japan (Fig. 232). It is one of Tokyo’s most popular tourist attractions, but plays a vital spiritual role to the millions of Japanese who come to pray every year. The shrine’s ceremonies and architecture are another example of Tokyo’s diverse charm, that even in the world’s largest city—once a small fishing village—tradition is never far away.

The beginning of Emperor Meiji’s reign in 1867 signaled the abrupt and violent end of the Edo Period, as well as Japan’s 250 years of self-imposed isolation and 400 years of samurai rule. This was by far Japan’s most decisive turning point to date. With all hope of saving the country’s self-sufficient, homogenous culture gone, a feudal Japan was forced to play catch-up with the world’s leading economic and technological powers. The emperor reached out to countries around the world for assistance in Japan’s Herculean task of modernization, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The Yamanote Subway Line runs in a loop around central Tokyo that defines the heart of the metropolis, connecting six major urban centers—Shinjuku, Shibuya, Shinagawa, Tokyo, Ueno, Ikebukuro—each with its own distinctive flavor. My father had recommended a district in Shinjuku, perhaps the best known of the six, which is famous for traditional Japanese food, drink and, if you knew where to go, shady entertainment. Kabukicho (Fig. 233) is one of those iconic locales that truly “never sleeps.” Parts of Kabukicho closer to Shinjuku Station have been modernized in recent years, but toward the outer perimeter are still streets better left unexplored. We chose a yakitori specialty shop, which turned out to be delicious, from among the thousands of restaurants, bars and clubs lining both sides of streets so narrow it almost felt possible to touch both sides with arms extended (Fig. 234). Even today, for every glass-and-steel business district, there are traditional drinking neighborhoods with festival schedules as vibrant as those of the past. The Japanese are not yet ready to turn their backs on tradition, thank goodness.

Our final Tokyo visit was a walk down memory lane, as we returned to Jiyūgaoka (Liberty Heights), the neighborhood where I spent my first two and a half years. My mother gave me the neighborhood tour: our old apartment (Fig. 235), my favorite park (Fig. 236), and Kumano Shrine (Fig. 237), whose courtyard I still recall as magical and mysterious. 

When I was six, a photographer friend of my father’s took a roll of photos at the shrine (Fig. 238), so I asked my mother to take a “now” update (Fig. 239). That might not qualify as “full circle,” but the visit was definitely a nostalgic return to my roots—one set of them, at least.

Last Words

I admit some of the shine wore off as the realities of Satsuma life became clearer, but my immersion in rural Japanese culture over the past two months has nonetheless served as a gateway to new contacts and project ideas that currently crowd my to-do list. Architects around the world are showing renewed interest in Japan, with many combining Western and Japanese methods in innovative hybrid approaches to common problems. One of the several fields of specialization I look forward to exploring in greater detail is the alarming issue of akiya, or abandoned houses, which currently number almost 8.5 million (See Week 4.), or 13% of all houses in Japan.

Interestingly, both the projects I have worked on this past year have close ties to that field.

• The Solar Decathlon competition focused on retrofitting an occupied, functioning home, targeting zero waste through improved energy efficiency and enhanced sustainability with renewable energy sources.

• The Satsuma renovation was client-driven, with Tsuruzono-san and I tailoring our efforts to the requests of the married couple waiting to move in. Their focus was on overall livability, including functionality, convenience and aesthetics.

Finally, and for the last time, I’d like to thank the friends and new readers who have joined me on this journey. I hope Japan Apprentice has educated, interested and, maybe even inspired some to look deeper into whatever caught their eye. I have my own general direction for the future, but also the freedom to weigh my options as I see what unfolds. That said, I hope to see everyone again on future projects, but more importantly, that Japan Apprentice really has been an experience to build on.