Small spaces

To reach the architect’s studio, you take the bookbinder’s elevator. From the landing, a steep stairwell that’s barely shoulder width leads up to the studio. Here, the staff’s silence is absolutely unequivocal. Intensely focused on their screens, they huddle over tiny desks, defending what little personal space they can carve out with styrofoam blocks, cardboard boxes and pieces of models. Welcome to Tokyo’s creative world, as exemplified by Sou Fujimoto’s architecture practice.

Immediately after greeting us, the tall Japanese architect explains that ‘personal space’ is an American concept. 

“You won’t find barriers in our traditional buildings. The doors were made of paper so each individual could hear, see and sense the presence of everyone else. Withdrawing or secluding yourself in private had no place in our culture. It was only after the Second World War that the practice took root.” 

We sit down in front of a wooden model that reaches up to the ceiling. The full-size, habitable version is located in Tokyo’s Suginami district. From there, we plan to set out in our Audi Q2 to explore the city’s forward-looking architecture.

“The site was typically Japanese – a tiny piece of ground hemmed in by a jumble of urban structures,” says the 46 year-old. “The owners are a young couple whose previous home was divided into clearly defined spaces – a kitchen, entrance area, living and tatami room. They wanted to leave all that behind. “My solution was to spread loosely linked alcoves and bays over various levels.” In the stack of glass boxes that comprise the house, the residents can choose a nook that chimes with their mood and chosen activity. 

Home to 38 million people, Tokyo has multiple centres bristling with skyscrapers: Shinjuku, Shibuya, Shinawaga, Ikebukuro, Ueno, to mention just a few. They are connected by a dense transportation network that penetrates the even more tightly-knit sea of wooden houses. Most of the two to three-story family homes have a lifespan of only 30 to 40 years. Then they are torn down to make way for a new generation. 

Often the heirs are insolvent due to the high inheritance taxes and end up selling parcels of land and as a result, property footprints in Japan’s cities are continually shrinking into increasingly bizarre shapes. It’s not at all unusual for a 12-story building to be only four meters wide and to even taper along its length. 

In Shinjuku, we drive past a building that is no more than three metres wide. It’s called “Split Machiya” – split townhouse – created by the Atelier Bow-Wow team of architects. It was lovingly dreamt up by Yoshiharu Tsukamoto and Momoyo Kaijima for a married couple. The ground floor is a concrete cube that supports two levels made of wood and simultaneously serves as entrance, cloakroom and piano room. The furniture is flat so as to prevent the rooms appearing just too narrow. Cladded on the sides with copper paneling, the stairway reflects the miniature garden, drawing it optically into the house and dispensing soft light. The toilet is tucked away under the stairs, its doorway cleverly camouflaged as a wardrobe.

We drive on to a structure comprising five mini houses that look as though children had piled them on top of each other as part of a game. Each unit consists of a room accessed via an outdoor metal stairway. Fujimoto has fittingly baptised this building, ‘Tokyo Apartments’.

It’s hard to image a better or wittier visual representation of the city’s population density, where on average, each square kilometre in Tokyo is home to 13,300 people. Despite this, the Japanese see their capital as a village – a sort of outward-looking communal lounge where you move around as if among your closest family. 

As a result, Japanese architects have naturally taken a greater interest than their Western colleagues in why some spaces feel roomier even when they’re actually smaller. On average, single-family homes in space-starved Tokyo occupy just 40 square metres. 

“I’ve come to the conclusion that creating a sense of spaciousness is not simply about how far apart the walls are. What’s more important is evoking a sense of the unknown, the alien,” says Makoto Tanijiri, a young, rising star with architecture offices in Tokyo and Hiroshima. “When you have such elements at your fingertips, a house automatically feels bigger.” The Japanese have been using this trick – they call it engawa – for centuries. It refers to that indeterminate multifunctional space in the transitional area between inside and outside that creates a link to nature. 

“If, for instance, you can incorporate the garden into the home,” Tanijiri explains, “then you have engawa that functions as a foreign object creating an illusion of space.” This is why he lets rock faces and plants encroach on roofed-over living interiors. Much like Fujimoto did at the Tokyo Apartments, he also makes use of nesting – a design technique that’s increasingly prevalent in building projects. Different roof levels, a patchwork of projecting elements and mismatched window openings create an organised chaos that enlarges space – at least in the eye of the beholder. 

“For a current project, I’m currently in Paris every few weeks and have noticed that the city has a lot in common with Tokyo,” says Fujimoto. “You have the wide boulevards and, behind them, the narrow maze of streets. Japanese cuisine tastes good also in Paris and French cuisine is as good, if not better, in Japan!” Fujimoto laughs as he raises an espresso cup to make his point.

“This is where the game of proportions and harmony starts.” He places the cup down again. “The table has to fit it well. Then the room. Then the street and the house opposite with the graceful facade that in turn segues into the mighty residential block. And on and on it goes. Who knows, maybe soon all the way to an airport on the moon. No matter what concepts we come up with for the future, if the proportions aren’t right, the structure is doomed to failure. Even if we seal ourselves off, retreat into our shell and support that isolation architecturally.”