I turn once more to Japan in this post, since I have recently learned that I will be physically returning there within the coming year. I have just been awarded the Robert James Eidlitz Travel Fellowship for a research proposal that will take me—along with Juliette Dubroca, my research partner from the Pacing Space exhibition—from Northern Honshu to Nagasaki. In celebration, I want talk about one of my favorite architectural materials—and one which the Japanese employ exceedingly well: concrete.
On last fall's trip to Japan I visited the islands of Naoshima and Teshima. Until recently, one would not visit either unless on business to a large materials recycling plant or investigating an environmental disaster perpetuated by years of political corruption. Beginning in the 1990s, with the completion of the Benesse House, and accelerating in the 2000s with the addition of several other museums, these islands have become an international destination for art and architecture lovers.
All of these museums are made of concrete, and upon visiting them I spent an embarrassing amount of time petting their smooth, polished walls admiringly and wondering why we can't do concrete like that here in the States. This brings up two interesting points: why can't we do concrete like that here? And why was I usually more obsessed with the walls than what was on or contained by them?
First, the concrete itself.
When visiting sites like this, it becomes apparent that different cultures have different mindsets regarding their trades. In the U.S., the building trades are often viewed as rough, indelicate work. It is a practical necessity in the service of something else—not something done for its own sake which happens to be useful. That view point encourages more of a "'git'er done" attitude to the work; it is the difference between utility and craft.
When looking at the concrete in Japan—and almost any concrete, from a retaining wall to a museum wall—it would seem that its construction is viewed as more of an art there. It reads as an expression of craft. However, it is much harder to consistently find that level of devotion to craft in the building trades here in the U.S. than in countries like Japan (Switzerland also comes to mind). And when it comes to a trade like concrete, which requires a team and large expensive equipment to execute, the difficulty of finding commitment to craft is multiplied.
Second, why the walls over the art?
After much thought about why I was often more interested in the walls than the art, I kept arriving at two interrelated points: the amount of art in relation to the architecture, and the expression of the architecture in relation to the art.
A traditional museum experience involves entering a plain to moderately ornate room within a larger building and looking at a number of artworks hung on the walls, with some standing within the space to be viewed in the round. There is one room, but a lot of art within it; the room doesn't offer significant competition to or collaboration with the art, it is just a neutral vessel for it.
The museums on Naoshima and Teshima do not actually have that much art within them. Often there may be one piece or installation inside a space; in the case of the Teshima Art Museum, the entire project contains one artwork. The ratio of architecture to art is extremely high.
Also, these museums are immaculately constructed buildings designed by some of the best living architects. Even when the architecture attempts to step aside to show the art, it cannot help but be noticed. Usually, invisibility is not the goal anyway: often the space is designed in collaboration with the artist whose installation will occupy it, or at least in full knowledge of the works it will contain. Thus there is an extremely high degree of coordination between the art and architecture; they fit hand in glove, and the glove is bespoke.
Given that the architecture and the art often complete each other in these spaces, and the high degree of craft not only in the art, but also in the architecture, my obsession with the walls becomes more clear: they are an extension of the art. Exacting craft in the execution of art is expected; in the execution of a modern building, it is novel to a contemporary American. In this respect—with the line between art and architecture on these two islands frequently blurred—I was, in a sense, committing a museum goer's faux pas: I was touching the art work; for it was the concrete of art.
Lee Ufan Museum
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Lee Ufan Museum // Tadao Ando
Path approaching the museum, and view of gravel exterior court. The museum is built into the side of the hill, and is articulated by three concrete walls that create a series of switch backs along the entry procession. Each 180° turn creates either a space for art, or for the admissions desk.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Lee Ufan Museum // Tadao Ando
Installation within the concrete wall in one of the switch backs.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Lee Ufan Museum // Tadao Ando
Approach to the admissions desk from the exterior, between the second and third walls.
Chichu Art Museum
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Chichu Art Museum // Tadao Ando
Monet garden within an open stair court. Shot on my iPhone.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Chichu Art Museum // Tadao Ando
Narrow light slit looking into the triangular light well from the interior ramp. Shot on my iPhone.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Naoshima, Japan - Chichu Art Museum // Tadao Ando
Triangular light well and narrow light slit seen from outside. Shot on my iPhone.
Teshima Art Museum
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Teshima, Japan - Teshima Art Museum // Ryue Nishizawa
Overivew of museum site, showing the smaller dome for the gift shop on the left, and the larger dome of the museum on the right. The museum is surrounded by rice terraces, which had been abandoned but are now active once more.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Teshima, Japan - Teshima Art Museum // Ryue Nishizawa
Inside the dome of the gift shop. A small window provides natural light, and people snack on the floor. The very thin concrete shells of the two domes were cast upon earthen mounds rather than a forest of scaffolding to support their formwork.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Teshima, Japan - Teshima Art Museum // Ryue Nishizawa
Looking toward the shell of the museum, with the ambulatory pathway snaking back and forth. The very thin concrete shells of the two domes were cast upon earthen mounds rather than a forest of scaffolding to support their formwork.
© Zachary Tyler Newton // Teshima, Japan - Teshima Art Museum // Ryue Nishizawa
Inside the entry to the museum's dome. The space contains the work of artist Rei Naito, which involves water welling up from pores in the floor and then flowing to larger pools and drains. The piece relies heavily on the surface tension of water, and the skill required to make the imperceptible localized grade changes to the concrete floor which allow the water to flow and pool was considerable.