New Material Research Laboratory (Shinsoken)

Architecture spans extraordinarily long time scales. Consequently, the nature that coexists with it—an environment that endures, repeats, or incrementally transforms over time—must be understood as something architecture can adapt to. We believe architecture ought to be capable of responding to these subtle shifts and variations.

Moreover, Japan is an island nation; since the sixth century, when Buddhism arrived, our cultural development has involved nurturing a uniquely syncretic religious consciousness that profoundly emphasizes living in harmony with nature. One may argue that our collective psyche has deeply inscribed an ethos of respect and coexistence with the natural world. What continually engages our thoughts is how best to translate this singular Japanese sensibility into architectural and spatial expression.

Fundamentally, it questions how to translate or transmute a certain ecological consciousness into architectural or spatial form. Two primary materials—wood and stone—serve as the principal thematic axes at the New Material Research Laboratory.

First, considering and working with wood entails not merely crafting detail or shaping space; it requires delving into the species of trees, their growth processes, and the broader ecology in which they thrive. Inevitably, such reflection leads us to contemplate the cyclical patterns of forests at large. How is this specific timber growing here and now? In what ways does it perpetuate its cycle? Addressing these questions reminds us that using wood is not simply about cutting trees but about sustaining the forestry industry, protecting the mountains, and preserving human livelihoods. Rather than focusing solely on rare or celebrated timbers, we prioritize the broader use of wood so that the very act of building contributes to the long-term viability of the forest.

On the other hand, when we think about stone, we begin with the recognition that Japan’s geological substratum is formed by four overlapping tectonic plates—an unusual configuration for an island nation. This creates a rich diversity of stone, each with distinctive textures and patterns, each bearing traces of deep geological time. Observing the grain or strata of a rock can provoke thoughts of organic sediments and eons of earthly processes. By drawing attention to the inherent qualities of wood and stone, we hope to imbue architectural space with a subtle indication of the planet’s vast temporal and geological rhythms.

I have realized that an orientation toward the natural—toward primordial materials and processes—is universally resonant, transcending cultural or national boundaries. A sense of reverence or longing for nature is not exclusive to the Japanese; it can be found across countless regions and peoples. After all, learning to inhabit and negotiate the planet’s processes is a shared human concern. Once we tap into these more primal sensitivities, national or cultural differences often become inconsequential.

In parallel, we have also discovered that em­­pha­sizing local distinctiveness can, paradoxically, have global appeal. Historically, Japan tend­ed to harbor an aspiration to follow Western cultural models. Still, more recently, we have seen that a broader and more universal sympathy emerges by unearthing and articulating the essential qualities, historical layers, and inherent practices of a given locale. In other words, a rigorous engagement with regional essence seems to be what today’s world requires—and it appears to foster a deep, collective sense of connection.

Though often described as a gardener or landscape designer, Dan Pearson possesses what I would regard as an inherently architectural mode of thinking. One might call him, more precisely, a “landscape architect.” The term “architect,” etymologically referring to a “supreme technician,” captures the essence of how he deploys contemporary knowledge and expertise to orchestrate natural environments.

When I visited Tokachi Millennium Forest, it became clear how he designed the garden as a “meadow”—essentially, it constitutes, in a sense, an act of humans constructing nature while applying a highly precise, experience-based methodology.

Reconciling the aim of returning land to a quasi-natural state with the reality of meticulous, technology-driven interventions might appear contradictory, yet he does so seamlessly. This resonates with our New Material Research Labo­ratory philosophy—where something “old is new.” I see a parallel willingness to accommodate seeming contradictions in Dan’s approach, and that affinity strikes me profoundly.

Hence, referring to him as a “landscape architect” underscores his architectural sensitivity. I believe working with him and his studio is tremendously instructive for us—indeed, a remarkable experience from which we can learn a great deal.

The first image that springs to mind is the dispersed settlements across the Tonami Plain. There, one finds a tempo of life quite different from that of a city, accompanied by dramatic seasonal shifts—most conspicuously between summer and winter. In winter, the deep snows of Gokayama (a World Heritage site) blanket the plains, forming an extensive white landscape dotted with these scattered farmsteads. The buildings we have designed aspire to capture that atmosphere, such that merely standing in situ becomes a means of experiencing the unhurried passage of time.

This resonates with a recurring theme throughout our work: “How does one stand within architecture and truly connect to and perceive nature?” At the Enoura Observatory, we imagined a structure that might endure as a relic 5,000 years from now, whereas at the Play Earth Park, we emphasize blending seamlessly with nature. Yet, in both instances, the fundamental concept of architecture as a “device to perceive nature” remains constant.

Take, for instance, the villas we designed: they incorporate deliberate alignments with solar movement, prevailing winds, and seasonal variations. A symbolic wall oriented to the cardinal directions—though it may appear merely decorative—allows the inhabitant to intuit their position relative to the sun’s daily trajectory. It serves as a device for situating oneself in the planetary flow, sensing the subtle progression of time, season, and meteorological changes. This act of “measuring” or “observing” nature via architecture offers a primordial experience that we consider essential to this endeavor.