of windows to admit light (although this depends on the specific building). A large sand-filled brazier is usually set before the doorway so that visitors may burn a stick of incense before entering, a form of purification. The difference in light levels between inside and outside, one of the most striking features of most temples, is intentional. Due to the broad eaves and relatively small openings for lighting, almost all the light that penetrates the interior is what has been reflected upward from the ground. The effect of this dim light, magnified in effect as it strikes the delicate gilt statuary and fittings, together with the incense-laden air, is moving and mysterious (Fig. 12). When one realizes that this type of atmosphere has survived essentially unchanged from antiquity, the sense of continuity with the past can be profound. This psychological effect arises from an environment that stimulates all of our senses: the coolness of the interior, its dimness and muffled acoustics, the mingled aromas of candle wax and incense, and an almost palpable memory of the tastes of tea, rice cakes, and small temple sweets. That such surroundings are highly evocative of the hope and despair of countless generations and their striving for purity is not incidental. It represents, rather, millennia of refinement and evolution in design, wherein the most profound aspects have been retained and the rest modified slowly over time. It was probably this overall consistency that caused the fellow I encountered on the train in Nara to remark, “They all look the same.”
Figure 12 The quiet harmony of black lacquer, gilt, and fresh flowers in the dimly lit interior of the Yakushiji Golden Hall.
An Unlikely Apprentice
It is not often that a new temple building—to say nothing of a large complex—is built in the “old way” in Japan today. I feel truly fortunate to have had the opportunity to observe such an undertaking close at hand, something which would have been impossible without the permission of master carpenter Nishioka. At the outset, there was no book planned. I approached Nishioka—after a long, labyrinthine process of leads, dead ends, and introductions to people who might obtain introductions to others who might be able to get me an appointment with the master himself—as an awkward American youth with an interest in Japanese carpentry, clutching a handful of slides of my own timber framing work in New England. On learning of my hope to return later to Japan to study more about its wooden architecture, Nishioka offered to take me on as an apprentice. I was shocked, to put it mildly; more shocked, in fact, than flattered, for I knew even then that an apprenticeship, if it was to be worthwhile, should last at least seven years. I doubted I could afford to spend so long in Nara. Besides, absolute obedience is not one of my stronger 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
