When I was young, I read a novel about Musashi’s life. I was deeply moved by his way of living, facing every moment with absolute resolve. To create architecture that truly has life, words are not enough. It takes the unwavering resolve of the creator.
How did your early occupation in boxing, a modern-day martial art, play a part in your development as an architect and what initially attracted you to architecture as a career?
A boxer stepping into the ring with gloves. An architect sketching with a pencil. At first glance, they seem like completely different professions, completely different ways of life. But to me, they are the same in one crucial way: Both are battles where you must overcome your own fears and move forward with courage.
Boxing is an intensely solitary and disciplined sport. You push your body to its limits through relentless training and weight cuts, only to throw everything into a fleeting moment in the ring. There is nothing to rely on but your own body. Yet it is in those extreme conditions that a new strength is awakened. Architecture is no different. When the constraints are tight, when the program and budget leave little room for freedom, that is when you are forced to ask yourself, What is truly essential? What must I create? And at the end of that struggle, light emerges. For example, in 1989 I built the Church of the Light in Osaka on an ultra-low budget. That building was born precisely because of such extreme conditions.
How do light and concrete coexist so harmoniously in your work, such as in the Church of Light? The importance of natural light seems to be a constant in your structures.
In architecture, light is a fragment of nature, yet it functions as an abstraction of it. It shifts with time and, through the pulse of light and shadow, breathes life into an enclosed space. And so I think, To master light, that alone is enough to create architecture.
Why is concrete your main material to work with?
I first chose concrete for a simple reason: its economic efficiency in unifying both the interior and exterior of a building. But once I used it, I discovered its potential. Its plasticity allows for free forms and an endless range of expressions. It holds infinite possibilities. At the same time, I had another thought: I want to create something that no one else can, using the most common method of our time.
That simple challenge remains the reason I continue working with concrete today. That said, concrete is an incredibly demanding material. My ideal is a concrete that embodies the refined sensibility of the Japanese aesthetic, accustomed to wood and paper architecture. A surface that is smooth, delicate, and pleasing to the touch. But in reality, it is never that simple. Water, cement, and gravel are mixed and poured into formwork—a straightforward process, yet deeply complex. To achieve the perfect finish, I experimented endlessly with the water-cement ratio, rebar placement, and formwork panels. Yet these are merely design challenges. The real work is done by the builders on-site. The success of concrete ultimately depends on how much pride they take in their craftsmanship. That, to me, is where the true essence of architecture lies.
How would you define the concept of 矩 (“kane”), and do you apply it in your approach?
In this context, “矩” can be translated as geometry. Limited materials, abstracted nature, and pure geometry, these three have remained my architectural themes for over half a century. I deliberately impose constraints on design, driven by a simple challenge: to create a world that no one else can, using a method open to all.
