Traditional Japanese Architecture: An Exploration of Elements and Forms

Through the lattice

For an outsider, Japan can be like the Japanese cuckoo bird or hototogisu —audible because of its melancholy song announcing the arrival of summer, but visible only through fleeting glimpses of its long spotted tail or curved bill. For many who have studied Japan, the first glimpses of the country are very much like the changing of the seasons—new and refreshing, suggestive of something more to come. But the sense of the lattice is always present, stopping you just short of understanding the whole—or seeing the hototogisu. Its mysterious song draws you into the forest, but the bird rarely reveals itself. Yet, the further into the woods you venture, the more the cuckoo discloses aspects of the forest that are new to you.

Imagine the wonder of the foreign visitors to Japan who arrived shortly after the ports were reopened in the latter half of the nineteenth century, after the country had mostly isolated itself for more than 200 years. Japan was not yet industrialized—and not completely sure it was ready to embark on the big changes its government was starting to embrace. It was a country with dense cities of wood and plaster houses, timber farmhouses with soaring thatched roofs, enormous temples sheltering gigantic bronze statues, quiet shrines amid thick forests of cryptomeria, angry volcanoes, peaceful rice paddies, and water lapping at the coastline. Much of this is still there, and nearly 150 years later many visitors feel that same sense of wonder when experiencing Japan.

Today, however, the visitor’s first experience with the hototogisu might be an electronic version of its song, piped into a subway station or used as a safe-to-cross chirp at busy intersections. Yet, even in the city, if you look beyond the throngs of people, the crowded concrete buildings, and the barrage of information—giant screens streaming dance videos, flashing neon signs one atop the other six or eight stories above the street, cute animated characters bouncing along every store-front, and electronic cuckoos—traditional Japan is still there. Hidden like the hototogisu, it sings out to you when you listen for it.

Traditional wisdom and customs continue to play an important role in contemporary life in Japan, and historic buildings, some hundreds of years old, exist in most towns and cities. Traditional architectural forms and construction methods still are in use for particular building types. Yet, what we today understand as traditional was understood as such only from the time the country reopened its doors to the outside world. It was first the eyes of outsiders and then the eyes of Japanese trained in the ways of the West, which led to the understanding of the present concept of tradition.

Yasaka Pagoda, Higashiyama, Kyoto.

In the same way, what we now think of as traditional Japanese was not always purely Japanese, as the Japanese culture we know today has been informed and transformed over centuries of contact with China and other countries. What some Japanese elusively have defined as Japanese taste is built on a foundation of Chinese culture infused with ancient sensibilities stemming from the Japanese way of living with nature. Everything traditional goes back to nature and the ways of life that developed in concert with the seasonal climate and mountainous landscape. Any study of the architecture of Japan must start there, yet the definition of Japanese taste or Japan-ness remains as elusive as the hototogisu.

This sensibility, which imbues everything that we now call traditional Japanese, has drawn many an observer into the forest that is Japan. The arts, architecture, and landscapes of traditional Japan intrigue and influence not only contemporary designers in Japan but all over the world. There is much we can learn, starting with the connection to the natural and cultural environments and how those relationships have transformed over time.

There is a history of identifying traditional Japanese architecture by classifying specific elements within historic buildings. This book builds on that history and the teachings and research of many who have followed the hototogisu before me. It is not meant to be an exhaustive compilation, and there are, no doubt, many details neglected. Rather, this book deals primarily with the common representative built elements found in the architecture and landscapes of traditional Japan and attempts to explore their connections to Japanese culture through the ways they are made and used. It is my hope that it may entice others to look beyond the lattice and wander into the forest drawn by the cuckoo’s song.

The Nandaimon Great South Gate at Tōdaiji Temple, ensconced among trees at Nara Park, Nara.

The weathered wood structure of the Sanzenin Temple in Ōhara blends in with the natural surroundings.

Chapter 1

Environment and culture

Beginning his day by relishing the brief blossoming of a seasonal flower while enjoying a meal—that is how haiku poet Bashō described himself in the mid-seventeenth century. Bashō’s words give form to an important idea in traditional Japanese culture: that humankind is inseparable from nature and its fleeting moments of beauty and inevitable decay. The theme of Bashō’s poem resonates with the strong ‘native’ Japanese belief that the only way to live in this world is to subject oneself to its natural immutable laws,¹ along with the teachings of Buddhism as they were disseminated in Japan in the sixth century.

Japanese culture developed in concert with nature and as a result of a long stream of outside influences tempered by a constantly developing sense of aesthetics. Just as Bashō and his followers developed haiku into a high art in the seventeenth century, other Japanese arts and architecture were reaching their peak at the same time. After centuries of evolution, the arts and architecture of Japan—those which we now consider to be traditional Japanese—matured during the peaceful but politically and socially strict years of the Edo period (1603–1868).

The natural environment and the cultural context are so fully integrated in traditional Japanese architectural forms, materials, and construction that it is impossible to separate them. Nature was the source for traditional architecture—the construction materials were found locally, and the buildings were designed to fit into and work with the natural environment. The cultural context shaped the buildings through a strong respect for nature, combined with the influence of foreign forms and methods of construction, as they were brought into Japan and transformed over time to suit both the Japanese landscape and Japanese aesthetic sensibilities.

The natural landscape of Japan is the foundation for any discussion of the traditional architecture, as the Japanese culture developed from the land and continues to be strongly connected to nature. The country of Japan is an archipelago made up of more than 3,000 islands (many which are uninhabited) stretching almost 4,000 kilometers (2,500 miles) along a roughly northeast to southwest diagonal line, with the Pacific Ocean on the east and the Sea of Japan on the west, separating Japan from the Korean Peninsula. The four main islands (from north to south: Hokkaido, Honshū, Shikoku, and Kyūshū) are home to the majority of the country’s population,² with the main island of Honshū having the largest land area and population and featuring a temperate climate with four distinct seasons. The northern island of Hokkaido is cool temperate, with heavy snows in winter. The smaller island of Shikoku has a similar climate to that of the western part of Honshū, while the southern island of Kyūshū has a subtropical climate. The tropical Ryūkyū Islands, which include the island of Okinawa, are strung along a curve southwest of Kyūshū to a length of almost 1,000 kilometers (625 miles).

Like the climate, the landscape varies from island to island. In general, the central areas of the islands are mountainous, dotted with active volcanoes, and the coastline is rugged, often with little flat land between the mountains and the sea. Almost three-quarters of the land in Japan is mountainous, with the great majority of it too steep for agriculture or for buildings.³ The cities and villages, as well as the majority of the agricultural fields, are built on the plains and other relatively flat areas, taking up only about one-quarter of the total land area. Therefore, because of the rugged terrain, populated areas developed in a condensed fashion with a very economical use of land. In rural areas, multiple generations of a family typically shared a house (which might also have included spaces for domesticated animals), and the agricultural fields often extended right up to the edge of the house. In urban areas, the privileged class had large estates with multiple buildings set within gardens, but commoners lived in cramped quarters with shared walls and communal wells and sanitation—again, carefully planned to make the most of the little space available.

Matsushima.

The rugged quality of the natural environment in Japan inspired awe and respect, and certain natural features became important aesthetic and spiritual landmarks. The venerable Mount Fuji, Japan’s highest mountain,⁴ is a prominent landmark on the island of Honshū, often featured in works of poetry and art, such as the artist Hokusai’s famous early nineteenth-century series of ukiyo-e (woodblock prints), 36 Views of Mount Fuji. Osore-zan (literally dread mountain), a sacred mountain in the far northern part of Honshū is considered to be the gateway to hell and a place where itako mediums can communicate with the spirit of the dead. The rugged volcanic terrain, sulfur haze, and plantless landscape is eerily beautiful—and the complete opposite of the more than 250 rock- and pine-covered islands of Matsushima, which are considered historically to be one of the three most famous scenic spots in Japan (nihon sankei).⁵ Scenes of Matsushima (figure 1) have been featured in poems and paintings for hundreds of years—even inspiring a seventeenth-century poetry competition.⁶

Unique places and changing seasons are celebrated. A path winds through a bamboo forest. Carp banners fly on Children’s Day. Rice straw bundles dry in the sun. Visitors pay respects at Seifa Utaki. A bridge celebrates a river crossing. Mount Fuji stands silently. A farmhouse uses local materials. Majestic trees lead to a shrine. Water, stone, and wood create an imposing environment.

Temporary shintō altar for jichinsai groundbreaking ceremony.

In addition to the awe-inspiring natural environment, Japanese culture developed with the constant threat of destructive natural forces—earthquakes, tsunami (tidal waves), typhoons, and active volcanoes. This very harsh natural environment did not result in a culture of fear and constant battle against nature, however, but rather a culture of respect for nature with an understanding and appreciation for the ephemeral quality of all life. This long-established cultural respect for nature is demonstrated by the daily rituals and seasonal festivals based in the indigenous Japanese religion, shintō (the way of the gods).

Shintō deities, known as kami, are believed to reside in natural features like rocks, mountains, and trees, and daily, seasonal, and special offerings are made to show respect for local deities. Traditionally, houses have at least one kamidana (deity shelf, figure 32) upon which the first bowl of rice and cup of tea are placed as daily offerings to the local deity. Shintō ceremonies are held seasonally to celebrate the preparations for planting in the spring as well as the bounty of the fall harvest. When starting construction of a new building, the traditional groundbreaking ceremony (jichinsai) is a shintō ritual. Offerings of nature’s riches (fish, seaweed, fruit, vegetables, rice, salt, sake, and the like) are placed on a temporary altar constructed of wood (figure 2). The altar is set up in the middle of a square oriented to the four cardinal directions and demarcated by four bamboo poles connected with a twisted rope made of rice straw, a shimenawa. The shimenawa is used to designate a sacred shintō place by separating the space of the everyday or profane world from that of the sacred world. The respect for the bounty of nature is obvious in the use of natural materials imbued with shintō reverence and symbolism.

This nature-based veneration in shintō is integrated into many aspects of Japanese life, from the annual New Year’s trip to the local shrine to the blessing by a shintō priest at a wedding ceremony. Although shintō predates Buddhism in Japan, when Buddhist thought was introduced in the sixth century, it did not replace shintō ideas or rituals but rather was introduced in a way that allowed the two to coexist. That peaceful coexistence is obvious in the shintō shrines that are part of Buddhist temple complexes, such as the Asakusa Shrine within the Sensōji Temple precinct in Tokyo, and in the mingling of shintō and Buddhist rituals throughout a Japanese person’s life— weddings are traditionally shintō, while funerals are Buddhist. This coexistence of shintō and Buddhism is clear in a traditional household, where the family maintains both the shintō deity shelf and a Buddhist family altar.

Buddhism, too, incorporates a strong respect for nature. Influenced by Buddhist thought, the transitory nature of life as it relates to Japanese aesthetic ideas is clear in the often used terms aware (the aspects of nature (or life, or art) that move a susceptible individual to an awareness of the ephemeral beauty of a world in which change is the only constant)⁷ and mujō (a Buddhist concept suggesting impermanence).⁸ These terms have long been and continue to be utilized by writers, artists, and architects to express the awareness and acceptance of the transitory nature of all things. Falling cherry blossoms, the waning moon, one’s own aging—these are popular themes incorporating the idea of ephemerality.

The transitory quality of nature is also apparent in traditional thought about the preservation of buildings, which were constructed using natural materials such as wood, paper, and bark—materials which disintegrate over time and must be maintained, repaired, or replaced. The idea of preservation was not one in which buildings must be kept intact, with elements replaced only when they outlived their useful life. Rather, buildings could constantly change, with pieces removed or added as needed for daily life or as required for maintenance. Buildings were understood as part of the changing environment rather than as permanent fixtures. Architect Kurokawa Kisho explains, It is an ancient Japanese belief that a house is only a temporary abode. If it burns down it can be easily rebuilt.⁹

Nature that provides the canvas for architecture may at times be harsh, but it also provides an abundant supply of stone, wood and other plant materials, and mud—the primary construction materials for traditional Japanese buildings. The islands of Japan are thickly forested in many areas, and those forests provide various kinds of wood that can be used in construction. Japanese cypress (hinoki) is used most typically for the structure of buildings. Cedar (sugi), cherry (sakura), red and black pine (akamatsu and kuromatsu), and zelkova (keyaki), as well as bamboo (take) and other grasses, among others, commonly are used as secondary structure or for ornamental uses. Japan is well known for the woodworking techniques and high level of skill developed by carpenters whose knowledge and training allowed them to take advantage of the stresses occurring naturally in trees to develop ingenious earthquake-resistant joints and structures that show off the natural beauty of the wood elements.

Like wood, mud too was the basis for a highly skilled craft, as solid walls are made from mud plaster (tsuchikabe) flecked with bits of straw and sand. These walls resplendently show the color of the earth, or sometimes are coated with a thin layer of bright white lime plaster (shikkui), troweled to a perfectly flat smooth finish. Like carpenters, master plaster craftsmen perfected their techniques over years of training and developed their craft to express the beauty of the natural quality of the earthen material.

Wood and mud provide the basic enclosure for traditional Japanese buildings, but other natural materials are used in combination with them to create spaces. Roofs are frequently made of a thick thatch of rice straw (wara), a highly useful by-product of rice-based agriculture. Floors are made of tamped earth (tataki) to create a hard flat indoor–outdoor floor at ground level, or they are made of lengths of bamboo or wood planks or woven rush-covered tatami mats set above the ground on a wood substructure. Washi, paper made by hand from the inner bark of the mulberry tree, is attached to sliding wood lattice shōji screens to filter the light. Washi also is applied on two sides of sliding wood frames to create opaque sliding partitions (fusuma, figure 27).

The surface of the fusuma, as well as wood panels on walls and openings, became the canvas for paintings of natural scenery or famous faraway places. Ornament enhances the architecture and supports its connection to nature. Mother-of-pearl, gold and silver leaf, ink, paint, pigments like iron oxide (bengara), and handmade washi paper are applied to the architectural elements in aristocratic residences and important temple and shrine buildings in patterns and scenes that relate to nature but also are utilized to show wealth and power.

Buildings not only incorporate many different natural materials in their construction, but the forms of the buildings, especially the minka (literally people’s house), are directly related to the climate and environment of the place where they are built (figure 10). Minka in cold mountainous areas with heavy snowfall typically have steep, thickly thatched roofs to avoid the build-up of snow on the roof, and wood exterior siding because of the prevalent availability of nearby trees. Minka in hot climates feature removable exterior wall partitions to allow breezes to pass through the house and overhanging roof eaves to shade the interior spaces.

Buddhist temples, as well as some shintō shrines and aristocratic residences, have substantial ceramic tile roofs with extended eaves. Heavy timber framing holds up the roof and gives a sense of strength and permanence. The weight of the tiles makes roofs resistant to strong winds, and the long eaves provide shade from the summer sun. The winter sun, lower in the sky than the summer sun, often reflects off an adjacent pond or gravel forecourt into the interior. The relative darkness of the interior of a traditional building came to suit the Japanese taste, and other arts developed within this context of shadows. Gold and silver leaf, smoothly finished lacquerware, and mother-of-pearl inlay are used to reflect small amounts of light and bring moments of brightness into the shadows. Novelist Tanizaki Jun’ichirō remarked, Darkness is an indispensable element of the beauty of lacquerware.¹⁰ He continued, The quality that we call beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty’s end.¹¹

This awareness of the qualities of space, along with the high caliber of craft in construction and the attention to detail that are hallmarks of traditional Japanese architecture, are apparent as the architecture reached its final phase in the Edo period. However, the beginnings of Japanese architecture were much more humble. As buildings developed in harmony with the natural surroundings and the seasonal and daily changes in nature, as well as influences from abroad, the forms that we now recognize as embodying a Japanese sense of beauty slowly emerged.

The expanse of gravel adjacent to the Kazenomiya auxiliary sanctuary awaits the ritual twenty-year rebuilding at the Geku Outer Shrine of the Ise Shrine. Only the sacred central column, submerged in the ground and hidden from view by a small structure in the middle of the gravel expanse, remains permanent.

Chapter 2

The evolution of Japanese architecture

Before the ancient Japanese began to settle and construct dwellings they were nomadic, moving with the seasons, changes in climate and available food sources, and sustained by hunting, fishing, and gathering. With the advent of systematic agriculture, especially wet rice farming from about 500 BCE,¹² communities formed to work the fields, and permanent dwellings were constructed. These early eras, known as the Jōmon period (c. 10000–c. 300 BCE), are characterized by ceramic pots, many adorned with rope patterns from which the era gets its name (Jōmon means rope mark), and the energetic design of haniwa ceramic funerary images that remain from that era, and the Yayoi period (c. 300 BCE –300 CE), distinguished by its more sedate, smoothly finished pottery and bronze mirrors, bells, and tools. The contrast of the rough, creative energy of the Jōmon people and the relatively more refined lifestyle of the Yayoi has been used by a number of Japanese architects and historians to explain the two-sided character of the Japanese people, as well as to categorize certain buildings.¹³

Ancient Buildings

The earliest buildings in Japan can be considered to have been of three distinct types: earthen-floored flat-land dwellings (heichi jūkyo), pit dwellings (tateana jūkyo, vertical hole dwelling, figure 3), and wooden-floored buildings either with the floor built directly on the ground (hiraya tatemono, one-story building) or constructed above the ground (takayuka, high floor), as found in the raised-floor storehouse (takakura, high storehouse, figure 4). Because these early structures were made entirely of wood and thatch, the buildings themselves naturally no longer exist. However, many dwelling sites have been located, and the pits and postholes excavated. The building forms have been deduced using the excavations, as well as images of buildings found on ancient bronze mirrors and in the forms of some haniwa.

Nestled into a hillside, the mausoleum of Gosamatu Seishun, the Lord of Nakagusuku, Okinawa Island, who ordered the construction of Nakagusuku Castle, displays the stone front wall and gently curved roof typical of a fifteenth-century turtleback-style tomb.

Light filters between the large stone blocks into the interior space of the seventh-century Ishibutai Tumulus burial chamber in Asuka.

Displaying the appropriate permanence and power, huge boulders create the stage-like roof of the Ishibutai Tumulus burial chamber.

All three types of building were constructed using wooden posts and thatched roofs, with the posts resting on top of or set directly into the ground. Since many daily activities took place outside, the buildings were small and enclosed a single space. In the case of the pit dwellings, the typical construction consisted of an excavated pit with four posts set into the ground and beams connecting the posts at the top. The floor was earthen, tamped to create a hard surface, with a fire pit placed within the small space. Timber rafters rested on the ground, leaning against the beams to meet at a central ridge, and were covered with a thick layer of thatch. The flat-land dwellings were constructed in a similar manner but without the sunken floor—the floor was at ground level and the roof rested directly on the ground, serving as both roof and wall. The hiraya tatemono improved upon this by lifting the roof above the ground on posts and enclosing the interior space with wood plank walls and a wood floor built directly on the ground.

The takakura storehouses, which primarily were used to hold grain, also were based on a four-post configuration, but the floor was raised about two meters above the ground to keep out moisture and rodents. The storage space was accessed by a stair carved out of a log, with a flat board at the top that created a barrier for rodents (nezumi-gaeshi, rat turnaround). The structure of the four vertical walls and the roof was made of timber. The roof was covered with thatch, and the walls enclosed with wood planks, perhaps with overlapping corner joints. The corner joints and mortise-and-tenon joints believed to be used elsewhere in the structure suggest a relatively advanced knowledge of carpentry techniques and tools.¹⁴ It is thought that the form of the raised-floor storehouses may have been influenced by buildings from elsewhere in Asia, in particular granaries from Southeast Asia or the Pacific Islands,¹⁵ and may have influenced early shintō shrine architecture.

Minka

The building type that eventually developed from the ancient dwellings is the minka or people’s house (often translated as folk house). Since minka were constructed using natural materials, primarily wood, mud, and thatch, few examples exist that are more than 200–300 years old. Although the number of minka in use decreases every year, many fine examples can still be seen in Japan. The existing minka represent the final stage of the development of the common dwelling from the pithouse and flat-land dwelling, one in which political stability and relative prosperity led to an increase in communication within the country and a diminishing of many regional variations.¹⁶

Tateana jūkyo pit dwelling.

Takakura raised storehouse.

The typical minka features an earthen floored space or doma, but unlike in pit dwellings the tamped earth floor is at ground level rather than sunken below. The doma is often large and is the location of the kitchen and where many of the household tasks are completed. Some doma are spacious enough to include storage areas and even stables for domesticated animals.

The structure of the minka is heavy timber, with columns placed on stone foundations rather than set into the ground as in the ancient dwellings. Beams connect the tops of the columns and sometimes also join the columns at intermediate heights. The beams support a truss system which, in turn, supports the roof. The roof of the minka is the most prominent architectural feature—and therefore is most important in terms of social status. It is also the strongest regional expression of the dwelling. Diverse styles of roofs developed in different areas (figure 10), and historically the size and form of the roof was evidence of a family’s social standing in the community. The typical minka roof is large and thickly thatched with rice straw, but some roofs are covered with wood planks held in place with wood battens and heavy stones. Others feature ridges covered with rows of ceramic tiles or perhaps planted with flowers.

The large roofs of the minka enclose grand spaces, sometimes incorporating multiple levels of floors and other times remaining open to the soaring roof. Originally, the interior space of the minka was one large room with a tamped earth floor. This developed into one room with a separation of the floor plane—half of the space had an earthen floor and half had a floor raised above the ground and covered with wood planks or bamboo poles. Eventually, the floor plan became more complex, with the raised floor area growing larger than the earthen floor and being divided into several spaces separated by sliding partitions (figure 28).

The focus of the interior space is the hearth, in which a fire is always kept burning. The smoke and carbon from the fire keep insects out of the thatched roof and help to preserve the exposed wood structure. Typically, the hearth is set within the semi-public space of the minka, on a wood plank floor raised above the ground level, adjacent and open to the doma. Private rooms are located to one side of the hearth space, while the earthen floored doma entrance and working area is on the other side. The form of the minka allows for multiple activities to take place within the house, as there is space for cooking and working in the doma, private rooms for living and sleeping, and sometimes even space in the uppermost level of the house for silkworms to be grown in the winter.

The exterior walls of minka typically are covered in rough mud plaster, although some are faced with wood planks, depending on the local availability of the materials. The interior surfaces of these walls are finished in the same fashion as the exterior, with a textured plaster of mud, straw, and sand. Interior walls, when permanent, also are covered with mud plaster or paneled with wood. Movable interior partitions, used to separate living spaces, started out as simple wood panels but later developed into wood lattices covered with handmade paper, influenced by upper-class residential architecture.

A jizaikagi adjustable kettle hanger with a simple carved wood fish and a kamado cook stove covered with a mud plaster are typical elements of a minka kitchen.

Characteristic of a single-story minka, the overhanging eave is supported by a straightforward structure of wood columns on base stones and protects the raised floor of the house.

The thick thatch and steep roof of this three-story gasshō-zukuri minka protect the farmhouse from the winter weather.

Shinto Shrines

Shrines are a spontaneous manifestation of the people’s faith in kami [deities],¹⁷ and the early shintō shrines were simple structures sited in nature to create places where people could leave offerings and pay their respects to the local deities. Often erected temporarily, these small local shrines consisted of four poles of bamboo or sakaki (a Japanese evergreen tree, Cleyera japonica) connected with a shimenawa (twisted rice straw rope) and decorated with strips of folded paper (shide) and lengths of tree bark fiber (yū). This type of shrine either was built around the object of veneration or was erected near it and had a small wooden altar in the center.¹⁸ The first shrine buildings