I made it a rule to devote a page to each of my major projects. I tried arranging the projects so that there was continuity of character from one page to the next. I tried various sequences, almost if I was composing renga (linked verse). In the end, the juxtapositions have nothing to do with the architectural program; a house appears next to the space for art, and a monument comes after the office of a kindergarten. That may be because I am ultimately interested, not in the program, but in specific elements that are not necessarily part of the program. I think only how things such as walls, floors, windows and the landscape are perceived.
To put it another way, I think about thresholds. What I call a threshold exist at the boundary of two conditions, for example, at the instant when, after continuous contact with the cold water, the sensation of “cold” changes to a sensation of “pain”. That is, sensations that do not seem to have much to do with each other such as “cold” and “pain” can approach each other until they almost meet. In addition, the “poison”, if taken in doses short of the threshold, will not be harmful and indeed can serve medicinal purposes. Even with the polar opposite concepts of life and death, there is a gradual transition from one state to other, interrupted only at the threshold. To put it another way, conditions in the vicinity of a threshold are ambiguous (because threshold is not an absolute but a relative value that varies depending on such factors as the individual and the environment in question). That is, a threshold is a delicate and dynamic form of boundary.
When I want to create a semi-outdoor interior place, for example, my interest is naturally drawn to thresholds, but not simple thresholds such as those separating indoor from outdoor. I ask myself what the minimum requirement is, from the point of perception, for my feeling of being indoors, and separately, what is the minimum requirement for my feeling of being outdoors. When I come to some conclusion as to what the threshold for each is, I then try to see if the two can be integrated somehow.
In that way, I believe I can arrive at an outdoor-like interior that could not have been imagined had I simply tried to think of a place where indoor and outdoor meet. Feelings like desire, joy, and surprise in their essential form are likely to be found there. If I undertake a study without considering such things, a conventional “architectural sensibility” – preconceptions learned through social codes and education, such as narrow=bad or bright=good – begins to take over. I want to clear my mind of them; that is why I think of thresholds. They enable me to reset my sensibility each time.
When I come across some unwelcome factor during design, instead of ignoring it, I first imagine how that factor may be understood. Then I consider what the source of its negative perception may be. That is, I trace it back to the vicinity of its threshold. What is strange and delightful is that, when I do so, I often discover that with just a slight manipulation, the factor that seems bad or harmful can change dramatically into something attractive. What I do is to manipulate buildings by observing things in the vicinity of their thresholds.
If we consider things from the perspective of thresholds, then we ought to be able to discover other aspects of our immediate environment that do not seem at first very attractive. When we do, architecture in a new guise may come into being.
(from JA 70 / summer 2008)