The Genius of Japanese Carpentry. Azby Brown

points.

      Despite my refusal of his generous offer, Nishioka helped me receive a grant from the Japanese Ministry of Education for study and research as a graduate student in the architecture department of the University of Tokyo. In addition, he gave me carte blanche to roam around the workshops and construction sites and take photographs. Most significantly, he frequently took time out to answer my questions (which, I fear, served primarily to reveal the true dimensions of my ignorance). I say “answer” my questions, which is perhaps true of the simpler ones about names, dates, terms, and so on, but for the more probing questions—those concerning the “whys” of his motivation and the “hows” of his work—while I usually received something by way of reply, I never got “answers.” His responses were almost invariably in the form of subtle hints that I was not being observant enough.

      Learning to Observe

      In order to know what should be built, Nishioka seemed to say, it was first necessary to observe what already existed. What was worth preserving? What sense, what atmosphere, should be duplicated in a new construction? It is possible for a code or formula to be followed to the letter and yet result in a work devoid of life, inert. This is the crucible of tradition: not formulae, but innate sense; not “design,” but patterns of action and use. Only these can lead to the preservation of those fragile constructs we call “culture.”

      In this light, then, what is a temple? Going beyond the religious symbolism that the form and layout represent, in a diagrammatic sense a temple must above all be a familiar and evocative part of an ancient continuum that includes the labor and intentions of those who built it. This is what Nishioka and those who share his goals are attempting: to extend that continuum another generation through their sincerest efforts, guided by a sure awareness of what has gone before.

      Watching this work for the first time is mystifying and perplexing: every action contains an implicit connection with other, unseen actions, a fact which is reflected in the actual configuration of the components. Some have slots, others tenons, and yet others indescribable curves, baffling even to an analytical mind. In fact, every part, if not itself curved, is part of some greater curve, and fits neatly into, onto, or around one, if not several other parts. And yet the carpenter’s sole guide, as he negotiates his way through his assigned tasks, is the information provided him in the form of templates and shop drawings. Only one person possesses all the information about the temple being built, including future stages of the work, and that person is the master temple builder, Tsunekazu Nishioka. The carpenters working under him must concentrate solely on the job at hand, following instructions. Observation is vital, but wagging one’s tongue with “whys” and “whens” is considered not only bad form but a waste of time as well.

      When this particular building, the Yakushiji Sanzō-in Picture Hall, was finally erected, mostly within a six-month period, most of my questions were graphically and demonstrably answered. The parts literally fell into place. A building, especially a wooden one, is primarily a skeletal framework that illustrates structural forces, which is generated by desired patterns of human use and occupation. The placement of columns, for instance, depends upon where people need shelter for standing, sitting, or moving, and the size of the parts depends primarily upon how large the whole is desired to be: big buildings almost always require big parts. In a temple, size, or scale, may be considered a “symbolic function,” as can many details of its configuration. The nature of the materials must also be taken into account: their properties and limitations, their grain and cellular structure. These factors, along with the physical and mental abilities of the builders, as well as cultural influence, dictate how the components will be joined to one another. The physical form of a temple like Yakushiji is the result of the interaction of a myriad patterns, some physical, some abstract, but all connected, a vast, emotionally laden webwork of decisions.

      The fabrication of the parts of the temple is often enigmatic, and raises dozens of questions that can only be answered by closely observing the construction process itself. But this brings its own frustrations, for many components are combined into beautiful new structures only to be obscured by successive additions, and often totally concealed in the end. The wood joints, for instance, are very beautiful in their naked, unassembled state, but once “activated” by being put together, they often become invisible, leaving only a subtle line showing on the surface which fails to suggest the topological complexity of what is hidden inside. The roof structure, also remarkable in its layers and interconnections, is largely concealed, in deference to an aesthetic tradition which calls for an illusion of effortless structural support. And yet, it is all very satisfying in the end: intricate conformations ultimately fulfill themselves, pieces slip into allotted slots, craftsmen accomplish their appointed tasks, and move on.

      CHAPTER 1

      WOODWORKING

       IN JAPAN

      In most discussions of traditional Japanese architecture, one of the first questions raised is why wood has been the primary building material, contrasting so sharply with the Western tradition, whose ancient monuments were almost always of stone and brick, and even with Chinese and Korean architecture, where masonry figures almost as prominently as wood. The Japanese invariably attribute their universal use of wood to the archipelago’s natural endowments. Wood and bamboo have existed in abundance from primeval times, while accessible and appropriate building stone was negligible. Seismic disturbances are also frequent. Hence, the reasoning follows, practical limitations dictated an exclusively wooden architecture.

      We need not, perhaps, accept this explanation at face value. After all, Japan is a mountainous country with an abundance of rock, and a glance at the stone walks of medieval gardens, or at the meticulous masonry of castle retaining walls, reveals a highly refined aesthetic sensitivity and technical sophistication. Why were these techniques not utilized in the construction of entire buildings?

      Figure 13 Master carpenter at work, from Shokunin zukushi-e, ca. 1640.