“Architecture as memory” was not a familiar idea to me. Having long been immersed in the values of contemporary architecture, I had been aware of memory in architecture, yet had never placed it at the center of design. It felt elusive, somewhat intangible—something difficult to grasp as a design subject.
It was Naomi Kawase who asked whether these two seemingly incompatible elements—architecture and memory—could be brought together as a place. This project is her pavilion for the Osaka–Kansai Expo, one of the thematic pavilions for the upcoming exposition. Through the medium of film, Kawase has continuously conveyed the intangible—human emotions and memories that reside within individuals—across cultural and national boundaries. To receive such a request from her carried a certain weight for me. At the same time, I felt it was something unavoidable for anyone engaged in architecture today. I resolved to confront it.
What does memory mean in architecture? Buildings are used by specific people over decades, sometimes centuries, and yet it seemed almost strange that memory and time had not been more naturally integrated into architectural thinking. Perhaps contemporary architecture has treated its components as controllable elements, assembling them into a logical, almost programmed system, while deliberately excluding what cannot be controlled from its central concerns. This may reflect a value system shaped by economic efficiency—where what can be explained is easier to predict, and where outcomes and returns can be anticipated more reliably.
How, then, can “architecture as memory” be realized on an artificial site with no inherent memory—such as the reclaimed land of the Expo grounds? Through discussions with the team, we found potential in an approach that uses an existing building to create something new—something never seen before. Fortunately, we were able to obtain a decommissioned school building.
Does memory remain within a building long after it has ceased to be used? When we visited the site, although it was our first time there, members of the team—of different ages, backgrounds, and upbringings—each remarked that the place felt somehow familiar. Even those who had attended reinforced concrete schools sensed something in this wooden structure built more than seventy years ago—a place they had never experienced, yet somehow recognized. In that moment, I felt that memory embedded in architecture might be transmitted beyond personal experience, beyond even shared time.
It was impossible to say exactly what was at work—what combination of elements made the place feel so close. Yet clearly, something was speaking to us: the totality of countless factors that together formed the memory of that place. It felt as though we had found a first clue in approaching “architecture as memory.”
A place that can hold memory inevitably demands durability. To exist for a long time in the world may itself be a form of value. To endure is also to be shared over time, by many people. A school that has stood for seventy or eighty years, for example, becomes a place where generations overlap—where children share the same space once occupied by their parents and grandparents.
If publicness is understood as being open and shared among many, then architecture that endures over time may itself embody a form of publicness. Durability, perhaps, can be understood as a kind of publicness.
When I began living in Kyoto, I was struck by a different sense of value. In Tokyo, I had believed that the value of a company lay in its scale and economic impact. In Kyoto, however, the value of companies that have endured for hundreds of years—or across many generations—is defined differently. It is not about revenue or profit, but about continuity—how long something can be sustained. The leaders of such companies do not see their primary responsibility as maximizing shareholder value, but as passing the enterprise on to the next generation. To do so, they take on new challenges with a long-term vision. Encountering this perspective was eye-opening for me, and in Kyoto, it felt entirely natural.
“Architecture as memory” is a project in which a disused building, carefully dismantled by hand, is reassembled at the Expo site in a new form. The old structure is not simply preserved, but reconstructed using methods that are only possible today. There are many parts that have deformed or deteriorated over time, requiring significant effort and care. It is, in every sense, an inefficient architecture—one that cannot easily be justified by contemporary keywords such as sustainability or upcycling.
Yet it is precisely in such attempts that I sense the possibility of a new kind of architecture. Rather than simply indulging in nostalgia, I hope for an architecture that allows us to feel the present as something connected to the past, while opening toward the future.
Can the memory embedded in a former building be carried into a new architectural form? Can it be conveyed even to those without a shared cultural background? Within the Expo—a place shaped by a technology-oriented set of values—I hope that “architecture as memory” can expand the possibilities of what architecture might become.
(Published in Hitotsuchi, “On Tile Architecture,” September 2024)