I dare you not to fall in love with this quirky building and its fascinating history.
Read MoreBeyond an “Architecture of Intimidation”: Indigenous design and Canadian architecture /
NOTE: This investigative paper was written for DIDH330 - Canadian Architecture & Design at Yorkville University.
Figure 1. Douglas Cardinal’s St. Mary’s Catholic Church Design remains iconic via: University of Toronto
“(T)he study of vernacular architecture ‘seeks ways to use buildings as evidence in order to tell better versions of the human story.’”
In order to talk about Indigenous design post-colonization, one needs to set a context with how Indigenous culture and values informed design pre-colonization.
If research into existing documentation is to be believed, there once was a sense of identity and purpose to Indigenous design, then an awkward period of mismatched ideas between the native peoples and the colonizers, then nothing for decades until figures such as Douglas Cardinal came along and kickstarted a rebirth of Indigenous design. However, more digging shows that the period of nothingness was an intentional attempt to erase Indigenous ideas from the Canadian landscape. Native Canadians still existed and dreamed and designed but the colonizers used every tool at their disposal - policy, kidnapping, isolation, extortion, and genocide - to try to destroy these non-European ideas.
This paper explores the culture and lifestyles of the Plains Native Peoples of Turtle Island, letting the boundaries between Canada and the United States blur a bit to honour the Nations that flowed freely pre-colonization fully. That the Indigenous peoples of the plains region were, essentially, nomadic by nature factors into much of their own canon even though they are now, by and large, stationary.
The Plains Peoples
Figure 2. Indigenous North America Map - By User:Nikater - Wikicommons
The people of the Plains Nations roamed the Great Plains for at least 11,000 years prior to the arrival of European settlers. In Canada, this area is between the Rocky Mountains and Southwestern Manitoba with the upper boundary being around the North Saskatchewan River. In the US, the area extends all the way to South Texas and all the way East to the Mississippi River.
The Plains Nations in Canada include the Dakota, Stoney Nakoda, Cree, Tsuut’ina, Siksika, Piikani, Kainai, and Assiniboine. Post-colonization, intermarriages between Cree women and the settlers produced a new distinct people, the Métis.
Though intermarriage was not uncommon in other areas of Canada and significant Métis communities exist elsewhere, many cite the Plains as the physical, cultural and political home of the Métis people. (Brasser, 2019)
Figure 3. Blackfoot Tipis image by Edward Curtis via Artsmia
Due to the extreme seasons, the Plains People were largely nomadic, moving from camp to camp to follow the hunt and foraging. They used pack dogs (thought to be some of the first domesticated canines) to help them transport their materials and tools until the settlers brought horses.
Because of these migratory patterns, the homes they built needed to be lightweight and easily portable. They lived in tipis (thípi is Lakota for dwelling), constructed as a pine tree pole conical structure covered with buffalo hides. This wasn’t merely a shelter, however, the shape, materials, and setup were part of a sacred ritual:
For spiritual purposes, the tipi’s entrance faces the East and the back faces the West. This is to symbolize the rising and setting of the sun and the cardinal directions. The tipi’s poles stretch high into the sky as a connection with the Creator and are firmly planted on the ground as a connection to the Earth. Each pole has a specific meaning based on each of the essential moral values of the tribe (specific naming of poles varies from place to place). (Native Women's Association of Canada, n.d.)
In the TVO Documentary From Earth to Sky, David Yarlott, Crow Nation member and President of Little Big Horn College in Bozeman, Montana comments, "Traditionally plains tribes, when they set up their encampment, they set up the lodges in a crescent moon with the opening to the morning sun." (Chapman, 2021)
This deep-rooted spiritualism and connection to the earth would be the core of what the settlers would try to destroy as well as what kept the uniqueness of the Indigenous approach to design alive.
Post-colonization: “Beware of strangers bearing gifts”
When the European settlers arrived on the Plains in the 17th and 18th centuries, they brought horses, which the Indigenous people took to instantly, as well as disease and racist ideas. The advantage of the horse was not a good trade-off for all of the grief the settlers would bring.
First, they brought the fur trade (along with smallpox), moving the Plains people “away from a subsistence lifestyle towards one of trade and interdependence.” (Brasser, 2019) Then they infringed on their land, making them sign treaties to surrender large swaths of their territories for a pittance. Then they brought in the Gradual Civilization Act of 1857 and the Indian Act of 1876, which were meant to “do away with the tribal system and assimilate the Indian people in all respects with the other inhabitants of the Dominion as speedily as they are fit to change.” (John A. Macdonald, 1887) This legislation led the way for residential schools, outlawing Indigenous spiritual practices such as the Potlatch and Sundance, and generally tried to quash Indigenous culture.
However, the people were strong and held on. That was until the settlers (both in the US and Canada) systematically and intentionally took away their autonomy by destroying their main food source:
(T)he frontier army's well-calculated policy of destroying the buffalo in order to conquer the Plains Indians proved more effective than any other weapon in its arsenal...With the mainstay of their diet gone the Indians had no choice but to accept a servile fate on a reservation where they could subsist on government handouts...Crow Chief Plenty Coups described its impact to Frank Linderman: "When the buffalo went away the hearts of my people fell to the ground, and they could not lift them up again. After this, nothing happened. There was little singing anywhere." Sitting Bull summed up the results of the annihilation: "A cold wind blew across the prairie when the last buffalo fell-a death-wind for my people." (Smits, 1994)
Residential Schools: an architecture of intimidation
Once Indigenous people were stripped of nearly everything that made them strong and unique, they had no choice but to settle on the reserves in government housing while their children were taken away to be “civilized” in residential schools.
Figure 4. Screenshot from 27:49 of the documentary From Earth to Sky. Brian Porter and Matthew Hickey (Six Nations Architects) look up at the imposing Shingwauk Residential School in Sault Ste. Marie.
In the documentary From Earth to Sky, Six Nations architects Brian Porter and Matthew Hickey approach the Shingwauk Residential School in Sault Ste. Marie and have the following conversation:
Porter: To have something plunked down that’s so foreign, right?
Hickey: Three stories…steeple…
Porter: Can you imagine what the kids must have felt like coming from their small communities and having to be accommodated here?
Hickey: It’s like a monster!
Porter: A monstrous kind of building, eh?
Hickey: Totally. Architecture of intimidation. (Chapman, 2021)
Though Sault Ste. Marie is more situated in the Subarctic region of Indigenous peoples, the residential schools were of very similar construction. Without going into the myriad of horrors brought upon the Indigenous population by the residential school system, these massive buildings in the style of Western European Revivalist architecture were direct representations of the domineering colonizers, looking to bring “order” and “civility” to the native population:
For most white-settler Canadians, the visual language of historical architecture expressed 'civilizing' values. But for indigenous or un-enfranchised immigrant labour, and especially the Chinese brought in to complete the hazardous railway construction in the western region, the motifs derived from Greek and Roman or Romanesque and Gothic architecture were alien and part of oppressive policy. (Liscombe & Sabatino, 2016, p. 45)
To go from their familiar home - conical structures made from natural materials, connected to the earth at the base and the open sky above, their immediate family gathered around a warm fire in the center - to be alone in this large, cold, sharp-angled concrete mass of a building with locked doors and windows must have been completely terrifying.
Métis Folk Homes: the architecture of resistance
Figure 5. First Nations Church at Stoney Creek. Photo taken 1908 by Frank Swannell. Wikipedia
Figure 6. Qu'Appelle Industrial School in 1885. Parents camped outside the gate in order to visit their children. Wikipedia .
There are few images or records of architecture and design on the Prairie Nations reserves between 1876 and the mid-20th century. Most photographs that exist in the early 1900s continue to depict Prairie peoples as living in their vernacular tipis and tents. At the same time, the architecture of intimidation (churches and/or residential schools) loom in the background (Figures 5 + 6).
Figure 7. Metis folk house from Saskatchewan via Canada History
The Indigenous “disappearance” wasn’t an accident. The 1876 Indian Act restricted the mobility of the First Nations people severely. Individuals required a permission slip, signed by an “Indian Agent”, to leave the reserve. (Joseph, 2015) This lack of mobility for Indigenous people, coupled with the fact that “(F)ew Canadians ever set foot on a First Nations reserve” (Hutchins, 2018) meant that there was little media recorded over this period.
However, there are images and studies of Métis “Folk Houses” (Figure 7.) from this era likely due to the fact that the Indian Act didn’t cover Métis people and, instead of being isolated on reserves, settled amongst the colonizers or in non-legislated settlements, such as Batoche, Saskatchewan where they created unique dwellings that “married” (pun intended) multiple cultures:
Their exteriors are decidedly Georgian, with medium-pitched gable roofs and central doors with perfectly balanced window placements. But once you walk inside, they are decidedly non-Georgian: open communal space just like the Plains Indian tepee. (Chandler, 2016)
Just as the Métis are a blend of cultures, these dwellings, too, blend architectural motifs from French, English, Ukrainian, Ojibwa, Cree, Assiniboine and more.
Figure 8. Isometric drawing of a Folk Home of the St. Laurent Region by Jason Surkan via Metis Architect
David Fortin, a Métis architect, studied Métis architecture and documented his findings on his firm’s website as well as a dedicated research blog. He posits that the Indigenous design influences on the folk houses go beyond the open interior:
The folk homes of the region demonstrate this lasting connection to the landscape through their informal placement of the structures within the river lots, which preserves meaningful connections to the river as well as other landscape features, which were viewed as “organic systems with which to interact.” (Fortin, 2014)
He also points out that these houses “emphasize the role of the front porch in blurring the boundary between interior and exterior space,” and display “a unique tension between order and informality.” (Ibid.) The interior openness was “the ‘antithesis’ of the compartmentalized Victorian homes” in the area (Ibid.). It seemed almost as if the Métis put on a European settler façade to protect the Indigenous reality inside.
He concludes:
It is possible for an architecture of Métis resistance [emphasis mine] to persevere that celebrates the infinitely rich combination of regionally specific spatial and material traditions developed during the past centuries by Métis people. The folk houses discussed here represent one of many cultural traditions carried by regional knowledge holders that can help inform this resistance. Hunting cabins, smoke shacks, meat-drying racks, boat building, and other Métis artistic forms all hold tremendous potential to inspire meaningful designs that staunchly resist generic buildings motivated solely by standard detailing and profit margins, as well as, perhaps worse, those prioritizing international design intrigue over community pride and wellness. (Fortin & Surkan, 2017)
It’s striking, too, that the elements that are valued within the vernacular Indigenous Prairie people’s designs (open and flexible interior spaces, blurring of indoor/outdoor, use of natural materials, connection to the earth, asymmetry, sustainability, etc.) are also those that would become popularized as “Prairie Style” in the age of Modernization by Western architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright. So, who influenced who?
This is best explored when looking at modern examples of Indigenous architecture and the Indigenous architects who kept the traditions alive.
Contemporary Architecture (and Architects)
It wasn’t until changes to the Indian Act in 1961 that Indigenous people were even allowed to attend University or enter a profession. Doing so would lead to enfranchisement, which meant they would lose their status and any benefits that went with it.
“Until the 1970s, First Nations weren’t allowed to do any of their own buildings. The government did everything: built the housing, built the schools,” says Patrick Stewart (Luugigyoo), principal of his namesake firm, based in Chilliwack, B.C. The government’s goal was ultimately assimilation. “That hasn’t happened,” Stewart says. “Cultures have remained. Languages have survived… and are thriving.” (Viola, 2017)
As of April 7, 2022, there were only 20 Indigenous architects in Canada (Lewington, 2022) including the aforementioned David Fortin (Métis, Saskatchewan), Brian Porter (Six Nations, Ontario), Matthew Hickey (Six Nations, Ontario), Harriet Burdett-Moulton (Inuit/Métis, Labrador), Patrick Stewart (Nisga'a Nation, British Columbia), Wanda Dalla Costa (Saddle Lake First Nation, Alberta), Alfred Waugh (Denesuline Nation, Northwest Territories), David Thomas (Peguis First Nation, Manitoba), Tiffany Shaw-Collinge(Métis, Alberta), Ouri Scot (Tlicho Dene, Northwest Territories), Daniel Glenn (Crow Tribe), Michael Robertson (Cree, Manitoba), Shawn Bailey (Métis, Ontario), Eladia Smoke (Anishinaabekwe from Obishikokaang | Lac Seul First Nation, Ontario), Ryan Gorrie (Sand Point First Nation, Manitoba), Kelly Edzerza-Bapty (Tahltan Nation, Northern British Columbia/Athabasca), Jason Surkan (Métis, Saskatchewan), and the first Indigenous licensed architect on Turtle Island in 1963, Douglas Cardinal (Blackfoot, Alberta).
To note, Cardinal wasn’t subject to the limitations imposed by the Indian Act as neither of his parents was registered under any treaty. Though he identifies as Blackfoot with German ancestry, he has no official status. (Cardinal, 2015) Therefore, he was unimpeded from registering at the University of British Columbia (UBC) in 1953. His “Indigenous-ness” and radical notions of organic and natural architecture (and racism) led to his expulsion, however, and he ended up finishing his degree at the University of Texas at Austin in 1963. (Hall, 2014) He returned to Canada, where he designed the high-profile and radically different St. Mary’s Church in Red Deer. This earned him a lot of attention, which quickly turned political.
When word got around that an Indian was the architect, native people in Alberta asked for his help. Mr. Cardinal became a vocal advocate for Indian education and for involving native people in their own constructions. ''The average native was spending 3.4 years in school,'' he said. ''I realized the situation at home was far worse than the American South.''
But his growing political involvement took a toll. His marriage broke up, and the establishment became wary of him. ''One day I was a successful architect and the next day I was an Indian architect.'' (Brown, 1996)
With more architecture schools, such as the one at the University of Manitoba, creating Indigenous-centric content and student centers (Merasty et al., 2021), this is slowly changing, but centuries of holding Indigenous people back from contributing to the architecture of their homeland has made the change even more sluggish.
What is Indigenous architecture?
When asked the question “What is Indigenous architecture?” in an interview with University of Manitoba students, Elidia Smoke answered:
(Indigenous architecture is) any space that is used on Indigenous lands, which is every single piece of architecture. Some of it fulfills its role in Indigenous architecture better than others. However, we don’t actually have Indigenous people having a voice to the degree they should in our built environment. So all architecture in Canada should be Indigenous architecture, but all architecture in Canada is not. (Merasty et al., 2021, p.87-88)
It is not and the distinct absence of Indigenous architecture on Indigenous lands was the intentional outcome of every move the European settlers made. Only now, there are efforts beyond the Indigenous community to rectify this.
Many of the aforementioned Indigenous architects were chosen to participate in the Venice Architecture Biennale in 2018 and, subsequently, appeared in the TVO Documentary From Earth to Sky, which explored their work, how architecture is “catching up” to Indigenous thinking, and their path to participation in the Biennale. The filmmaker, Ron Chapman, asks the same question (What is Indigenous architecture?) to each of his subjects. Their answers vary but have definite themes: connection to nature, collaborative and inclusive processes, less about trends and more about honouring the culture of the client and creating nurturing environments. (Chapman, 2021)
These are all themes that are now quite popular in architectural and design practices, but they’re not trendy notions for Indigenous architects. These are part of their history and teachings that have been passed down through generations. As Wanda Dalla Costa explains:
We've had an interrupted architectural history. When we work with communities, we're going back to understand what's important to them with the forms from their communities. What's important in terms of materiality in these structures. What's important in terms of the sociocultural organization systems that we're connecting with. It's really vital in terms of articulating the sovereignty of this tribe.
Through architecture, there are so many powerful opportunities not just to create space but also, I think, to connect things within our culture that are vital, and for so long have been denied that we could practice. (Ibid)
Overcoming a new kind of colonization
Though Douglas Cardinal was preaching these values in the 1960s, now these ideas are de rigueur, so, once again, Indigenous voices are being silenced. There is a new colonization at play. In an interview in Voices of the Land: Indigenous Design and Planning from the Prairies, David Thomas puts this into words:
(I)f it comes from an Indigenous person that’s Indigenous architecture because it comes from that Indigenous worldview. But there has to be an understanding of the colonial view of architecture. In my experience, there’s a filter that all design goes through, which is largely a colonial system, which almost guts the creative work that an Indigenous architect would do, in a sense. (Merasty et al., 2021, p. 94)
That being said, Indigenous architecture is unique. Though it does incorporate contemporary technology, materials, innovations, and practices, it seeks to reconnect with the core values of Indigenous culture as well as celebrate the ingenuity of their vernacular architecture, which was suppressed for generations.
By blending the passed-down wisdom and ideas of their elders with the advancements present in the world today, they can reinterpret “the past with a contemporary material” such as Alfred Waugh describes as his execution of the structural/decorative exposed bow trusses used in the Squamish Lil’wat Cultural Centre in Whistler, British Columbia.
Figure 9. Squamish Lil'wat Cultural Centre interior via: https://www.formline.ca/work/squamishculturalcentre
Though Waugh is Denesuline from the Subarctic region of Canada, his education at UBC established him in West Vancouver, where he works with many of the Pacific Northwest Coast Nations. The centre, built for both the Lil’wat nation and the Coast Salish nation, is a modern amalgamation of the two nations’ vernacular architectures: the large, wooden longhouse of the Coast Salish and the S7istken (“Ishkin”) circular underground pithouses of the Lil’wat. The key was to ensure that both nations had their cultural identities expressed in one beautiful structure. As Waugh explains “Indigenous architecture is a reconnection with the past (while) trying to express an identity of a people through a modern medium, which is, you know, 21st-century building materials.” (Chapman, 2021)
As he goes on to explain, his job is to listen to his First Nations clients to create something “inspired from (and embedded in) the culture of the people” while also “looking to the future.” (Ibid.) It’s this sense of honour and grounding in tradition while reaching forward into possibility and growth that, I believe, is a distinctly Indigenous approach to design.
There is something metaphorically nomadic about this notion. Unlike Western architecture, which is either about looking to the past (Classicism) OR abandoning old notions and speeding into the future (Modernism), Indigenous architects hold love for both ideas at once.
Like their nomadic ancestors, they respect the traditions and the teachings of their elders, who hand down all of the wisdom they need as a strong foundation, but have no qualms about uprooting everything to seek out new adventures and opportunities the land can offer. They know they need to embrace both in order to survive and thrive.
In an upcoming design for the Saskatoon Public Library that Waugh is collaborating on with two other firms, he draws on this ability to balance past, present and future as well as the bringing together of cultures in a meaningful way.
Figure 10. Saskatoon Public Library Rendering via: https://www.formline.ca/work/saskatoon-public-library
How I like to think of it is, somehow, bringing together Indigenous ways of knowing and Western knowledge. It’s a reconciliation in bringing both those worlds together. (Saskatoon Public Library [video], 2022)
Waugh goes on to describe the form’s connection to the Métis and Prairies Nations that inspired the design:
We were inspired, of course, by the iconic tipi of the Prairies, but we wanted to look at the qualities of the tipi - the conical shape, that it’s composed of lodge poles which are light wood. We wanted that sense of elegance and the slightly leaning façade of the building evokes the idea of the tipi, but it’s subtle. (Ibid)
Figure 11. Interior Saskatoon Public Library via https://www.formline.ca/work/saskatoon-public-library
The base, made of light bricks, harkens back to the brick-building roots of Saskatoon’s European settlers, the curving, basketweave patterned façade and tipi-inspired ventilation give a nod to the Prairie peoples, and the glulam wood timbers that line the interior invokes the Métis folk house. The building is also aiming for further inclusiveness with accessibility and LEED Gold certifications.
Conclusion
In his descriptions of the Saskatoon Public Library, Alfred Waugh invokes the word “Reconciliation” quite a lot. It seems that there is a lot of reconciliation taking place between the colonizers and Indigenous people in this country. As Fred Glover writes in a Canadian Encyclopedia entry, “The word reconciliation is used a lot in Canada.” (2023)
The government of Canada set up a Truth and Reconciliation Commission that ran from 2008 to 2015 to address the impacts of the residential school system, which led to a class-action settlement, but there are still more questions than answers and damage that was done that can never be undone.
Economically, Indigenous people were, literally, held back until the 1970s, and then held back for the next 50+ years by racist attitudes and stereotypes. The Idle No More movement in 2012 raised an incredible amount of awareness around the centuries of abuse Indigenous people have endured while the colonizers moved in and got rich.
However, if a full understanding and awareness of how our history has held down and devastated Indigenous communities were represented by the water filling an Olympic-sized pool, the non-Indigenous people of Canada would have only consumed a single drop.
Bob Joseph lists some “considerations that may contribute to understanding reconciliation” (2018) on his Indigenous Corporate Training site, including working toward solidarity, honouring treaties, letting go of negative stereotypes, learning about Indigenous history, respect for “Indigenous beliefs, cultures, traditions, worldviews, challenges, and goals,” and an opportunity to move forward. (Ibid) There is still so much work to be done and a lot of time to make up for.
While C.H.C. Write was setting up the first Department of Architecture at the University of Toronto in 1890, (Daniels, 2016) Indigenous people were being legally barred from designing and building their own dwellings, let alone able to dream of designing them for others. Therefore, European settlers instituted legislation that granted them more than a 70-year head start on architectural education alone. We are now 62 years beyond enfranchisement and finally starting to see progress, but parity will take much more time and…reconciliation.
So, what are the differences between Western and Indigenous architectural theory and philosophy? Western architecture and general ideology have been about domination for a long time. Dominating the natural world, other nations, and even mortality. Western colonizers came to Canada with the idea of dominating the land and the people who lived there. This was reflected in the architecture (large, imposing, bold, solid, permanent, and showy) and landscaping (controlled, tamed, meticulous). It wasn’t enough to just arrive and take up space, either. The level of domination required the annihilation of any sign or theory that there was another way to be in the world. Living side-by-side in harmony with Indigenous and Métis people wouldn’t cut it when dominion was the goal.
Indigenous design theory and philosophy were and are the opposite of dominion thinking. It’s about balancing, compromising, connecting, nurturing, learning, honouring, and reconciling.
Douglas Cardinal has an excellent graphic that explains the vast differences between the two world views on his website better than I could ever, so I’ll end with it (on the following page in order to be legible).
Though we failed to learn from the Native peoples of this country when we arrived, I hope that part of reconciliation means that we will stop talking and listen now.
Figure 12. Douglas Cardinal's World View comparison poster via: https://www.djcarchitect.com/assets/philosophy
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Tadao Ando's Church of Light and the Fullness of Emptiness /
[This was written as a paper for my Global Architecture class as a commentary on essays by Jin Baek on this piece of architecture]
Church of Light interior from Behance
Tadao Ando’s Church of the Light is a stunning piece of architecture and has been the topic of many analyses by scholars in architecture, engineering, philosophy, religious studies, linguistics, and beyond. One of these scholars, Jin Baek who is an Assistant Professor of Architecture at Pennsylvania State University, has dedicated much of his career, to focusing on examining the semiotics, phenomenology, and deconstructive characteristics of Ando’s work, especially his religious architecture.
After a deep dive into the research, I am less convinced that the “spatial emptiness in the Church of the Light is based on painful awareness of the state of modern religious art,” (Baek, 2017, p. 8) and more apt to believe that this design follows Ando’s phenomenological approach to architecture in general.
Tadao Ando, as you will read, is an architect who is almost solely focused on creating spaces that leave lasting impressions on the people who interact with them. As he’s outlined in many interviews:
The real importance of architecture is its ability to move people’s hearts deeply. I am always trying to establish spaces where people can gather and interact with one another. (Ando, 2016)
Ando also referenced his approach to designing religious architecture, in particular, in a 2018 interview in Sufi Journal, saying:
When designing religious architecture, I always aim to create a space which can continue to inspire people for many years. As a method of doing this, I often employ water, light, and wind to create an architecture which evolves and changes with its environment. When natural elements are abstracted from the raw power of the earth, it can approach a sacred plane. In traditional Japanese architecture, shakkei (borrowed landscape) is often used as a way of framing nature and creating a permeable boundary between interior and exterior. Spiritual spaces, in a sense, perform in the same way as a Japanese tea room. In the Japanese tea room, importance does not lie in the floor, walls, or ceiling, but the space of shintai (nothingness). Nothingness is a means of finding the self and life’s richness. (Ando, 2018, p. 55)
So, is emptiness/nothingness a comment on modern Christianity or is it a way that Ando incorporates his Japanese sensibility into his work overall? My focus is on the latter.
Model of the Church of Light by FAB365 3D Printing
The Church of the Light
Completed in 1989 in the small city of Ibaraki, Japan, the Church of the Light (or Ibaraki Kasugaoka Church) was the third Christian structure Tadao Ando designed and built in a span of fewer than 5 years. Commissioned by the United Church of Christ in Japan, this parish was overseen at the time by the pastor Noburu Karukome, who “had requested a house of worship with a connection to the earth.” (Christian & Keiko, 2011)
Sketch of the site plan for the Church of the Light
Situated on a corner lot in a residential area, it is near the Expo ‘70 Commemorative Park and Osaka University, this small chapel is only 6 meters (19’ - 8 ¼”) by 18 meters (~60’), or 113 m2 (1216 ft2) and would hold fewer than 100 people at a service comfortably.
In 1999, the Chuch of Light Sunday School building was built next to the chapel (Kroll, 2011).
According to the official website, the church is no longer allowing tours or casual visitors and it looks like, due to funds and aging caretakers, there are no longer services, either.
Materials
There are two main materials used in the construction of the Church of the Light: concrete and wood. However, just mentioning the raw materials would be doing the description an injustice.
Beginning with concrete, Tadao Ando’s version isn’t the standard concrete used in modern structures. For one, it is not meant to be hidden behind cladding or decorative finishes.
“Ando Concrete” as it is famously known in the architectural and construction world is so distinctive, rendering software material banks carry it as a branded style of concrete finish
Ando has taken a humble material (in his words, “a ubiquitous, ordinary material”) and elevated it to luxury status through a craftsperson’s approach to working with it:
Making Ando-caliber concrete is not for the faint of heart…Like most architectural concrete, it is made of water, cement, sand, and small rocks blended with chemicals and slag, a by-product of steelmaking that lends the final result its creamy finish. The material is trucked to the site, where it is pumped into a formwork—essentially a mold made of large wooden panels. Other architects might use bare panels of oak or fir, but those woods typically transfer their grain to the concrete as it dries. To avoid this, Ando has since the 1970s used plywood coated in plastic, which imparts a smooth surface. These panels are painstakingly connected so that the edges fit together tightly 6. Each mold is also pierced through with a series of steel rods, called form ties, which keep its two sides together 7. The form ties are in turn held in place by blue-plastic cones, which protrude into the wet concrete 8. When the formwork is removed, the seams between the wood panels leave behind Ando’s iconic lines, while the plastic cones produce his trademark holes, which are partially plugged with mortar. (Bosker, 2017)
After being removed from the moulds, the cast-in-place pieces are sanded until they are “smooth-as-silk”. Unlike more raw concrete finishes with rough surfaces, the smooth surfaces of Ando’s concrete blocks reflect and emphasize the light he so loves to use in his designs.
His use of wood for the floors and furniture is also done with thoughtfulness. In a 2016 documentary, Ando expressed why he used natural wood for this project, even if there were materials that were easier to upkeep:
"Contrary to plastic, which is used everywhere, the church's floor is made out of wood and has to be maintained. The maintenance work is done by us and the church congregation. This is how an emotional bond emerges to the building." (Ando, 2015)
Key Features
The church consists of a triple cube sliced through at a 15-degree angle by a freestanding wall, which defines the chapel and its triangular space. Entering through an opening in the angled wall, one has to turn 180 degrees to be aligned with the chapel. The floor descends in stages towards the altar, behind which is a wall penetrated by horizontal and vertical openings that form a crucifix. Both the floor and the benches are made of low-cost wooden scaffolding planks, which, with their rough-textured surface, emphasize the simple and honest character of the space. (Pare, 2017)
Aside from the materials, the floor-to-ceiling and side-to-side sliced openings in the altar wall that form a cross are what make this architecture remarkable. As a Professor of Systematic Theology, Bert Daelemans writes in the journal Faith and Form:
The entire sanctuary wall is a religious symbol: extending over the entire height and width of the concrete wall (8 by 6 meters) a Latin cross is excised. What do we look at? The wall or the cross, which is not really there? This cross is present as absence, because it is cut out of the wall. As Christian symbol it is there, that is, not less but more than there. For a Christian, this could be a magnificent symbol of death and resurrection. For Frampton, it is also a denial in favor of a cosmogonic spirituality. All of Ando’s churches are imbued with this conjunction in which both Christian iconography and its Japanese “other” are simultaneously evoked, although the evocation of the divine depends on the revealed ineffability of nature rather than on the presentation of conventional symbolism. [emphasis added]” (p.25)
This is the “simultaneously visible and invisible” (Baek, 2010, p. 10) effect that leaves an impression on the visitor. However, rather than being just an outright comment on the symbol of the cross itself, there seems to be more at work here.
One feature is never isolated from the other in Ando’s work and this is very true for the Church of the Light. The full length and width span of the subtracted form of the cross is on a wall that is at a lower elevation than the point of entry for the congregation so that a visitor entering the Church will encounter the outreached arms of the cross at a very welcoming eye level.
Section of the Chapel with line-of-site indicated in red
In this way, the light streaming in from the opening connects directly with the visitor rather than creating an overbearing symbol that asks for sublimation. The visitor and the light, which is part of the architecture, are now joined. As he writes in an essay, Shintai and Space, published in a 1995 collection:
My intent is not to express the nature of the material itself but to employ it to establish the single intent of the space. When light is drawn into it, cool, tranquil space surrounded by a clearly finished architectural element is liberated to become a soft, transparent area transcending materials. It becomes a living space that is one with the people inhabiting it. The actual walls cease to exist, and the body (shintai) of the beholder is aware only of the surrounding space. (p. 453)
The Japanese word shintai is one I will explore in the next section, but it is more than “the body”. It translates to God-body. As Ando writes in another essay in the collection entitled From Self-Enclosed Modern Architecture Towards Universality:
Space attains a sense of transparency when the current moving from the level of abstractions to the level of concrete, and the current moving from the level of the whole to the level of the individual parts flow together and become replete from end to end with a single creative intention. (ibid., 448)
It is not just one of the features that create the experience, it is the combination of them. The opening in the altar wall that emanates light, the downward slope of the room from the entrance to the pulpit (putting the pastor below the level of the congregation and the arms of the cross at eye level), the labyrinthic journey into the church, the smooth-as-silk, but relatively unadorned walls (vessel for the light), the rustic natural wide-plank wood floors and furniture (humble), the warm bodies contrasted with the cool concrete, and even the orientation of the building on the site itself all come together to create a space where that is “emotionally stimulating.” (Baek, 2009)
About Tadao Ando
Tadao Ando in Surface Mag
Tadao Ando was born on September 13, 1941, to a working-class family in Osaka as one of a pair of twin boys. At a very young age, he was separated from his twin brother and raised by his great-grandmother on his father’s side. Ando was a smart kid, but a “mediocre student” (Cho, 2015) and, thus, dabbled with various career paths, including boxing and even driving a truck. He was, however, quite interested in both math and carpentry, which piqued an overall interest in architecture. This interest grew and grew, but because Ando’s family was poor, applying to architectural school wasn’t really in the cards.
However, his “fighting” personality pushed him to pursue his chosen career without formal instruction. Instead, he voraciously read and studied architecture in the real world, travelling first around Japan, then to the West to learn all he could about the art of designing great buildings. He loved reading and books, as evidenced by the volumes and volumes of books that line the many levels of his professional offices:
Tadao Ando’s Osaka offices with every wall and partition filled with books
His enormous appetite for reading and learning led to Ando being an incredibly thoughtful, well-rounded intellectual, which he also associated with the great architects who influenced him such as Le Corbusier, Louis Khan, and Frank Lloyd Wright. (Bailey, 2015)
Much of my pay check at the time was reserved for expensive and imported design books. I would flip through their pages until they were falling apart. (Ando, 2020)
Over his 50-year career, he’s been a prolific designer with over 170 projects built with his name on them. This illustrious self-made vocation has resulted in a global reputation for excellence, mandates for incredibly iconic buildings in 13 countries, over 20 awards of excellence, and a lasting legacy for being an incredible artist and pioneer in architecture. All of this is from a self-taught man born into a working-class family.
Design Influences
His modest upbringing and humble beginnings have influenced his approach to design but they aren’t the only influences on his unique style.
Though the designs Ando creates are remarkably simple, the level of thought he puts into his work is not. His approach is informed by many factors alongside the aforementioned upbringing and love of reading. These influences include his Japanese origins, bringing a sensibility that is very much grounded in the culture, history, religion, philosophy, and architecture of his home country balanced with what he has learned from the history and masters of Western architecture and design.
Japanese Culture
There is an interesting level of multiplicity in Tadao Ando that imbues everything he does. This is also a very Japanese (and particularly Buddhist/Shintoist) approach. Throughout interviews and presentations, Ando neither confirms nor denies the influence of his culture on his work, but this may be due to how imbued his culture is for him.
In 2016, he says in an interview that “I wish to embody spaces that comprehend Japanese sensitivities in modern architecture,” but in another interview in 2020, he says, “ I do not deliberately express Japaneseness in my architecture, but if others feel this way when they see it, maybe it is an unconscious expression of this inherited view of nature.”
Yet, his essays that appear in the book Tadao Ando: complete works by Phaidon Press, are filled with his professions of love for Japanese architecture and approach to design. He mentions how “the spirit of Sukiya style” (p. 447) is part of his work and that the “simplicity of composition” (p. 448) in Japanese farmhouses are also part of his work.
Sukiya style, otherwise known as Sukiya-zukuri, is most often associated with the design of Japanese teahouses.
It originated from 茶室 (chashitsu or tea room/hut) used for wabi-style tea ceremony, which was cemented by Sen no Rikyu, the legendary Tea Master in the 16th century. As the word “wabi” suggests, wabi-style tea ceremony was the culmination of “wabi-sabi” culture, and chashitsu architecture was the manifestation of wabi-sabi philosophy. (Abundance Zero, 2022)
Ando has incorporated a lot of the concepts of Sukiya-zukuri as I’ll go into in my own analysis of the Church of the Light as well as his other religious buildings.
Buddhism & Shintoism
The two main religions of Japan are Shinto and Buddhism with only 1% of Japanese practicing Christianity. (Akito, 2019) Shinto is Japan’s native religion and was quite enshrined when Buddhism arrived (via China and Korea) in the 6th Century. (Cartwright, 2017)
Japanese Buddhism follows the school of Mahayana Buddhism, which originated in China (Chan Buddhism), and the largest sect of Buddhist practice is Jōdo Buddhism according to 2021 statistics from the Japanese government. Though “Ando is no liturgist,” (Daelemans, 2014) his approach aligns most closely with the Zen Buddhism principles, including:
Shogyō-Mujō ( 諸行無常) - the impermanence of things
Shōhō-muga (諸法無我) - there is no self
Munen Muso (無念夢想) - non-attachment
Utsuroi (移ろい) - evanescence or fading away
Unlike Western culture, which focuses on ownership, permanence, individualism, and control of our environment, Japanese culture is rooted in Buddhism and Shinto (which, is to say, most of it), believes that attachment to things and permanence is what will lead to suffering and celebrates impermanence, transience, and evanescence.
The root of many of these concepts is mu (無), which translates to “emptiness” or “void”. The physical world is impermanent, thus empty. I am impermanent, thus empty. Buildings are impermanent, thus empty. But this type of thinking is not nihilistic by any means. Instead, grasping the emptiness and nothingness means that we’re free from the burdens of ownership. Instead of having arrived, we are always moving towards.
The concept of mu as it relates to spatial design is combined with two other concepts - en 縁 and ma 間. (Ek, 2022) En is a concept that means edge or connection and is found in words like engawa 縁側, which is the word describing the porch or veranda that connects rooms in a Japanese house.
An example of an engawa
Ma is a Japanese word that means pause, but is very loaded with other meanings (which is common for many of these words):
Ma combines door and sun. Together these two characters depict a door through the crevice of which the sunlight peeps in.
We see in this symbol not only the structure of a door but a door that is open for the light to come in, thus enabling growth and sparking creativity. This is Ma – the space between the edges, the space and time in which we experience life.
Ma is filled with nothing but possibility. It speaks of silence as opposed to sound, of stillness and opposed to motion. It is the momentary pause in speech needed to convey meaningful words, the silence between the notes that makes the music…
In that stillness, free of noise, we connect on a soul level. There is a need for Ma in every aspect and every day of our lives. (Canning, 2014)
Where mu leaves space, ma creates possibility and en creates the transition between the two (or a shroud that allows for the transition).
Japanese Architecture & Gardens
An example of a Japanese garden with stepping stones
The Japanese tea ceremony doesn’t begin when you sit down for tea. The ceremony is incorporated into the journey you take to get to the teahouse:
Passing through the gate of the garden, the visitor follows a winding footpath through a garden space called the roji, which connects to a dark pine forest or bamboo grove. The teahouse stands at the end of the footpath, but is not immediately visible. The path is dark, monotonous, and long. This is the first aspect of the Ma of space-time to be noted. Walking along the footpath to the teahouse, the visitor is given no indication as to when or where the path wnd, while the monotonousness of the journey seems to make the time pass more slowly. There is almost nothing to see in the plainness of the woodland, and there is nothing for the visitor to do other than proceed quickly. (Kodama, 2017, p. 180)
What Kodama describes above is just the first leg of a multi-leg journey to get to the teahouse. The second leg of the journey involves a zig-zag detour through gardens that slow the visitor down to take in the beauty. The third leg is the navigation of stepping stones, further slowing down the visitor due to the tricky footing.
Finally, there is a step up onto a platform to find an entrance (called nijiriguchi). This is no code-compliant Western entrance (and definitely not ADA-compliant). The entrance is narrow with a raised threshold and lowered head so that the visitor has to carefully step over the threshold whilst bowing their head. All of this is intentionally designed to slow time for the visitor:
When moving from the extremely narrow entranceway into the room to enjoy tea, the inside of the room feels bigger than it actually is. Different perceptions of space and time can be created by interposing spaces like this, in other words by utilizing the Ma of space-time. (ibid., p. 181)
This indirect, quite perilous journey is a device for creating the transition between one world and the next. Ando, as you will read, uses a version of this device in all of his work.
Western Architecture
When discussing his informal education by experience, Tadao Ando recounts his travels to Europe to take in the pillars of Western architecture:
I decided I had to go to Europe, and when I was 24, I went. I visited the Pantheon and the Parthenon. But I didn’t know how to take the Parthenon. At the Parthenon, you see only those columns. I was impressed by the space that the Pantheon had, but at the Parthenon, it’s just columns. I didn’t know how to understand them. I started from there. (Ando, 2015a)
There were a few interviews in which he mentioned his distaste for columns. Though his commentary on columns is almost comical, I realized why columns didn’t compute for Ando. They don’t make sense in a Japanese context for a few reasons.
Number one, they’re showy and ostentatious, especially those on Ancient Greek structures. In vernacular Japanese architecture, walls and windows and doors and all of the “building envelope” components take a back seat to what is contained within the envelope: namely the wind and light. As he writes:
The importance of architecture resides not in individual elements such as wall, pillar and floor or ceiling. But the actual invisible space inside is the essence of architecture. (Ando, 2001a, p. 20)
Not only do walls take a back seat, but they also don’t exist philosophically:
When they agree with my aesthetic image, walls become abstract, are negated, and approach the ultimate limit of space. Their actuality is lost, and only the space they enclose gives a sense of really existing. Under these conditions, volume and projected light alone float into prominence as hints of the spatial composition. (Ando, 1995, p. 448)
In his mind, the skeletal structure of a building merely serves the purpose to contain the volume, which is the second reason why columns don’t make sense for Ando. A wall creates the container and demarcates the transition from the outside world (where there is chaos and stress) to the inside world (where the occupant can find peace). A column fails on this function:
The air of my design is, while embodying my own architectural theories, to impart rich meaning into spaces through such things as natural elements and the many aspects of daily life. Such things as light and wind only have meaning when they are introduced inside a house in a form cut off from the outside world. (ibid., p. 446)
There are many additional Western architectural concepts that confound Ando (the need to conquer nature, for instance), however, he still found much inspiration from more modern Western architects such as Louis Kahn, Le Corbusier, and Frank Lloyd Wright.
It was Louis Kahn’s Salk Institute that inspired the iconic cast-in-place concrete panels that Ando would become so known for.
Salk Institute, built in 1960
And the light that shone through the mosaic of windows in Le Corbusier’s Chapel of Notre Dame-de-Haut in Ronchamp, France, would become a very core inspiration for his concept of the Church of the Light.
Light wells in the Chapel of Notre Dame-de-Haut
Emptiness and Empty Cross by Baek
Jin Baek, the author of Emptiness and Empty Cross: Tadao Ando’s Church of the Light, has written extensively about Tadao Ando as well as the topic of emptiness. In this article, which came out a year after the publication of his book titled Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space, he focuses on theology and the symbolism/symbolic nature of the cross at the front of the chapel.
As he outlines, there are two main theses he focuses on for this essay:
…spatial emptiness as the language for Christian architecture in the intellectual context of the 20th century, and second, the ontological shift in the interpretation of the cross from crucifix to a thing that transcends the contemporary dichotomy between the minimalistic and the figurative, between architecture that is silent and architecture that speaks. (2010, p. 3)
After reading and listening to multiple interviews with Tadao Ando as well as exploring Japanese concepts and culture, I disagree with Baek’s analysis. Rather than being concerned with religious symbols or icons, I believe that Ando was focused on the experience for visitors.
Ando doesn’t appear to express any positive OR negative sentiments towards Christianity or the stories and teachings of the religion, even as there are Buddhists, such as Daisetz T. Suzuki opposed to the “cross as a symbol of cruelty or of inhumanity.” (Baek, 2009, p. 65)
In fact, one only needs to look at Ando’s other religious projects - both Christian and Buddhist - to see a pattern where, rather than commenting on symbols or ideologies, he’s incorporating a very “Japanese” sense of ritual into every project in order to elevate the user’s experience and “to open the hearts of the people and move them in such a way that they are glad to be on earth.” (Ando, 2015)
Expanding on the phenomenological ideas
To start, I want to outline the Japanese concepts that come up time and again in Tadao Ando’s work and how they play out in his designs, whether for a Christian church or a Buddhist temple (and beyond):
#1. Walls that “do not exist” (mu 無)
In the traditional Japanese house, the wall does not actually exist. Of course, walls were used. But their aim was not to express the simplicity of the wood, paper, earth and straw of which they were made. According to the traditional Japanese interpretation, architecture is always at one with nature and attempts to isolate and freeze at a point in time nature as it exists in its organic metamorphoses. In other words, it is an architecture reduced to the extremes of simplicity and an aesthetic so devoid of actuality and attributes that it approaches theories of Ma, or nothingness. Further connections with nature are effected by the subtle transformations caused in part by delicate contrasts of light and shade. In all these connections it is the wall, made as light and thin as possible, that permits - or perhaps more accurately evokes - space. (Ando, 1995a, p. 447)
If the walls do not exist, or rather, they only exist to contain the light and wind within and delineate the line between inside and outside, the “slit” (as Baek puts it) or opening that makes the cross of light is actually the volume, not the void. It’s not empty at all but filled with light and wind. The concrete wall around the cross only serves as its vessel.
Without walls, there would be nothing to shape the light, but the point isn’t the wall, the point is the light. The wall is what is empty, it is mu 無 (nothing) and the cross is ma 間, the experience. It’s not about the shape of the cross, per se, but as a Christian building, this is a perfect way to deliver natural elements into the space, marrying an important Christian symbol with an important Japanese notion.
#2. Passages to a Separate World (en 縁)
I wish to embody spaces that comprehend Japanese sensitivities in modern architecture. For instance, the continuity between interior and outside space is one of the typical characteristics of traditional Japanese architecture. I often incorporate the space between inside and outside in my architectural proposals, which is similar to the traditional veranda known as engawa. (Ando, 2018)
In almost every project, Tadao Ando incorporated some sort of passage from outside to inside that would cause the visitor to slow down and/or pause, shift time and space, or create some sort of overall transformation. As covered in a previous section, the roji 露地 (garden path) concept is another technique to create this transition and Ando uses this in the Chapel on Mount Rokko as I’ll show in the next section. In the case of the Church of the Light, though there isn’t much space to create the full garden path experience, there is still a transitional effect:
(O)ne should note the labyrinthine passageway leading to the empty chapel of the Church of the Light...In situating the church, Ando oriented it so that it may be accessed via a small street to the east of the site. While this is partly a response to the site that slopes up to the north, it is also an architectural tactic to lengthen the passageway to the church. One walks along the naturally formed slope, and turns around at the north-east corner to walk up another ramp—this time a rather short one. He turns around again to move along a levelled land before one enters the triangular zone of threshold in semi-darkness, a zone formed by a diagonal wall piercing the west wall of the church. (Baek, 2009, p. 60)
Site plan from Baek’s 2009 paper
He also uses the techniques of ascent and descent to create ma 間 in the various points of transition - reveals and narratives that feel like a revelation (ascent) or that humble the spirit (descent).
#3. Ephemerality + transcience (Utsuroi 移ろい + Munen Muso 無念夢想)
A beam of light isolated within architectural space lingers on the surfaces of objects and evokes shadow from the background. As light varies in intensity with the shifting of time and changes of season, the appearance of objects are altered. (P. 458)
In the use of natural elements like light, water, wind, and landscapes, Tadao Ando builds the message that everything is temporary and transient. The natural light piercing the opening of a wall will change in colour and intensity throughout the day and seasons. The reflections it casts will also shift and change. He uses the neutrality of the concrete and an eye for framing that highlights the ephemerality of everything and the need for us to let go and be at peace with this.
#4. Borrowed Scenery (Shakkei 借景)
When designing religious architecture, I always aim to create a space which can continue to inspire people for many years. As a method of doing this, I often employ water, light, and wind to create an architecture which evolves and changes with its environment. When natural elements are abstracted from the raw power of the earth, it can approach a sacred plane. In traditional Japanese architecture, shakkei (borrowed landscape) is often used as a way of framing nature and creating a permeable boundary between interior and exterior. (Ando, 2018, p. 55)
Another way that the natural elements are used in Ando’s work is to incorporate borrowed landscape or shakkei - using earth, wind, water, and light from beyond the envelope to incorporate them into the overall experience. In the Church on the Water in Tomamu, the cross is off-center and “floating” out in the water beyond the building envelope, framed as the focal point for visitors.
(T)he cross brings together nature and the sacred, earth and sky, exteriority and interiority, mystery and matter, body and spirit. The cross defines the emptiness as sacred, so that it makes the ineffable palpable. (Daelemans, 2014, p. 24)
Related Projects
In order to further back up my analysis that, rather than a commentary on Christian symbolism or a desire to deconstruct, Tadao Ando was and is more focused on using ma in his designs to guide the occupants to shintai. I’m focusing on three other religious structures, two of which were built before the Church of the Light and one that is Buddhist to demonstrate a similar approach.
Chapel on Mount Rokko (1986), Kobe
The long journey to Mount Rokko Chapel
Probably the most extreme example of how Tadao Ando deploys the use of long journeys is at the Chapel on Mount Rokko in Kobe. According to Alex Veal in the 2002 study entitled Time in Japanese Architecture: tradition and Tadao Ando, “Ando employs to engage with the passage of time are rooted in the Japanese tradition and vividly expressed in the chapel.” (p. 351) Incorporating many of the characteristics of a traditional roji, tunnels, zigzagging garden paths, and stepping stones are all utilized to transport the visitor into a whole new world.
This project also integrates borrowed scenery (a view into a Zen garden not accessible via path), transcience (“the south wall of the chapel…acts as a canvas for the shadow of a nearby tree, the quality of light and form of the image changing perceptibly even during a brief visit” (ibid., p. 356), and walls that do not exist (the use of slots between the walls and ceiling).
Church on the Water (1988), Tomamu
As mentioned earlier, the Church on the Water at Tomamu is an incredibly striking example of the use of shakkei (borrowed scenery) as a way to connect interior space to the exterior/natural world in a meaningful way. This isn’t just about creating a beautiful view. The entire framing is intentionally narrowed:
Ando…did not open Tomamu “widely” towards its surroundings but consciously “frames” nature and consciously “stages” a cross in-between exterior and interior spaces. Placing the cross as visible witness of the infinite appearing within the finite, Ando allows their invisible relationship to come to the fore. (Daelemans, 2014, p. 24)
Walls that, literally, don’t exist (the wall facing the man-made pond has a sliding glass panel to open up), passages to a separate world (“From this point, the visitor descends a darkened stairway to emerge in the rest of the chapel.” (Dal Co, 1995, p. 282), and transcience/ephemerality (the changing of the seasons, light, time of day, and wind are all very visible) are all incorporated into this design as well.
Honpukuji Temple/Water Temple (1991), Awaji Island
The approach to the Honpukuji Temple is an excellent example of Passages to a Separate World:
The temple hall is below ground, beneath a large oval pond filled with lotus plans. It is reached by means of a descending stair which divides the pond, and appears to draw visitors under water. The hall is composed of a square space, gridded with timber pillars, contained within a round room. The interior of the hall and its pillars are stained vermillion: this traditional Buddhist colour intensifies when the reddish glow of sunset floods the space, casting long shadows from the pillars deep into the interior. (Ibid., p. 384)
This project also makes use of the transience of nature in the reflection of the water, the borrowed scenery of the sunset as a way to manipulate the colour and shadow of the interior, and the walls simply provide a frame for the journey as well as keeping the visitor dry as they descend into the temple.
Conclusion
Neither Tadao Ando’s work nor his words, with stories and philosophies repeated time and again during this career, give any indication that the Japanese notions of emptiness (mu, in particular, but also ma) mean the same thing as “the spatial emptiness of Christian architecture,” (Baek, 2010, p. 3). In fact, his work, in general, demonstrated the influence that Japanese culture, especially the philosophies of Buddhism/Shintoism and the experiences created in Sukiya-zukuri architecture with a particular focus on teahouses, roji, and Japanese farmhouses.
Even when he works overseas, he endeavours to “incorporate the Japanese senses or the Japanese spirit.” (Ando, 2002)
Emptiness in the Japanese context does not mean the same thing as in the Western world. Emptiness is so complex in Japan that it has several words for its various states. The emptiness notion of mu (無) is a statement on the impermanence of everything and the aim of non-attachment. Then there is en (縁), which is a form of emptiness in that it is a bridge or transition between one state and another. Finally, there is ma (間), the most hopeful, beautiful emptiness (or nothingness) there is.
But overall, the emptiness that Ando imbues in his projects is captured in this passage:
I do not believe architecture should speak too much. It should remain silent and let nature in the guise of sunlight and wind speak. Sunlight changes in quality with the passage of time. It may gently pervade space at one moment, and stab through it like a blade at the next. At times it is almost as if one could reach out and touch the light. Wind and rain are equally transformed by seasonal change. They can be chilling or gentle and pleasant. They activate space, make us aware of the season, and nurture within us a finer sensitivity. (Ando, 1995, p. 449)
There is no emptiness in the cross in the Church of the Light. It is speaking constantly though everyone hears a different voice.
References
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Why so many shades of grey! /
At some point, someone decided that grey floors are the “classic” hue for wood flooring and now they dominate the market, especially when it comes to finding options for Luxury Vinyl Plank. I’m not a fan.
Sure, grey is “neutral” and easy to maintain (I once had dark hardwood and it was incredibly frustrating!), but why not go for a nice, natural wood tone? THAT’s classic and it will stand out against all of the generic showrooms we see today.
What looks more like home to you? This:
Valencia Hardwood Flooring from Craft Floor - a Sustainable Hardwood Flooring company
Or this:
Of course, many people really like the “clean, white, stark” look of the second design, but I find it so generic and common. In fact, while looking for an image to use as an example, I found myself not able to discern between various showrooms.
Grey is a perfectly fine colour and I, personally, have a lovely grey sectional, but it isn’t the piece that sets a monotone in my living room (plus, we chose the colour mostly due to having dogs and cats that we let on the furniture):
I also love the old, natural wood floors in my midcentury modern house. They bring such a lovely warmth to the space. Grey would make this space look cold, like this:
The natural wood is so much more appealing.
If I take the very grey showroom from above and add some colour to the floors, there is also a vast improvement in warming the space up, no?
Of course, now everything looks like it needs some colour around the floor, but you get my drift.
Grey floors are “neutral” in that they fade into the background of a scene, but they look out of place when you try to add colour and variety to a space, whereas, a natural wood (or wood-look) floor will be an equally “neutral” backdrop that adds warmth to any design.
Design isn’t meant to be as invisible as a blank canvas. It’s meant to be the painting on that canvas. Grey floors can work in some cases beautifully (industrial, hyper-modern, and even some rustic looks), but it isn’t a great neutral for ALL designs.
I’m mostly frustrated because we’re re-doing our basement and using Luxury Vinyl plank (we are redoing the basement due to a flood that ruined the floors). In a basement, where there is less natural light, a lighter, yellow-toned hardwood is ideal to brighten up the space. A grey tone will make it look drab and cold. There are endless shades of grey available, but very limited shades of yellow or orange-toned wood (and, where they exist, they are almost always double the price).
I’m very much looking forward to the trend of grey floors ending and a better selection of multiple wood tones coming back.