Samoarchi

TS Having begun working in both Tokyo and Toyama, I’ve come to strongly sense the remarkable diversity of Toyama as a place. From coastal areas to mountain regions, from urban to small villages, there’s such a wide variety of environments that you can’t pin down a single “This is the architectural style of Toyama.” In fact, that very range of climates and landscapes feels incredibly liberating. In Tokyo, skyscrapers define the skyline wherever you look, and you simply assume you’ll plan your projects in that context. But in Toyama, every project takes shape amid varied and vibrant environments—seas, mountains, rivers—and working as an architect in such a setting is gratifying. Another appeal of Toyama is the closeness to the people here. In Tokyo, we often design for a broad, anonymous user base, but in Toyama, there’s a real sense of “this specific person will be using it” or “this particular person used it once it was finished.” You feel much closer to the space’s actual users. Even during the creation process, it’s easier to see who’s doing the building, and working so directly with those involved is a major attraction for me.

AM Because Toyama is quite compact, we can see how our architecture and designs affect the community in a very tangible way. It’s almost as though we’re working with the cityscape right before us, and that sense of immediate connection is powerful. Another factor is Toyama City’s history of being mostly destroyed by air raids and then rebuilt. Because so few areas preserve strong traditional forms, there’s no sense that “this is the only way it can be in Toyama” or “that doesn’t fit here.” I think that background has fostered an environment where many different types of design and architecture can flourish.

TS Alongside those historical aspects, Toyama’s geography and natural conditions—like dealing with flooding from its rivers—seem to have nurtur­ed a culture that accommodates some flexibility in human activities. That may be one reason the connection between place and people here feels so profound.

TS Since starting working in Toyama, I’ve become particularly attentive to the potential of a site—its broader “sense of place.” As I mentioned, Toyama’s varied climate and landscape can radically change how we approach architecture in each location, and that variety is fascinating. Compared to my previous experience designing in various other regions, I’m now more focused on capturing and reinterpreting each spot’s unique scenery and reintroducing it freshly. We refer to this process as “translating landscapes,” in every project, we explore how to innovatively reveal each site’s distinct charm.

AM I feel designing in Toyama expands our view of nature according to its diverse natural environment. We have to consider more extensive systems, such as infrastructure and traffic flows, and deal with powerful natural forces, such as heavy snow in some areas. Those conditions can dramatically alter design requirements. So instead of starting with “this is the shape I want to create,” we often find ourselves adapting or reshaping buildings to fit the local environment and city layout.

TS When we use “translating landscapes,” it is based on the premise that the landscapes we deal with can be extraordinarily diverse. For instance, in a mountain village that had been completely abandoned—essentially a “vanished settlement”—we developed a new lodging facility on what was once residential land. Rather than reproducing the old structures exactly, we considered how to translate the essence of that former village into something that suits a new purpose. Specifically, we borrowed the characteristic “yuki-wari” roof style suited for snowy mountain regions, not as a straightforward restoration but as a way of leveraging the area’s historical and geographic foundations while enhancing its modern appeal.

AM We use the word “translating” because it really captures the process of carefully reading the existing landscape and converting what we find into design or architectural plans. Ideas don’t appear out of thin air; they emerge from thoroughly analyzing what’s already there and then shaping it into something new. That’s the core of our design process. Additionally, by translating a landscape, you carry forward the layers of time and history that formed it. This continuity avoids a break in the timeline, preventing the building from quickly feeling outdated and allowing it to remain vital over a long span.

TS My perspective leans toward seeing architecture as something that grows through continued use. If you want people to value and use a building for a long time, there needs to be a distinctive charm anchored in that location—so that users feel, “This is such a great place.” Our job as architects is to cultivate an environment that encourages that attachment. Then, if users decide, “We want to change it this way,” they’re free to do so. That act of change further enriches the site, layering new possibilities onto it. Designing a space robust enough to accommodate those ongoing layers is crucial to me.

AM For us, how a building is used is just as significant as its surrounding environment. In fact, delving deeply into how a space will be used can substantially influence the design itself. So we don’t just make architecture convenient as a duty; instead, we’re truly curious about the diverse ways people might interact with a building—and we aim to reflect that sense of discovery in our architecture.

TS The most striking feature of this site is the lake right before your eyes. Our plan involves nature-centered activities here, and we’d like to connect these activities to the lake through a large, sheltered plaza. By doing so, we hope the scene of people’s activities and the lakeside scenery will naturally intermingle. Specifically, we imagine creating landform-like elements that connect the building and the lake so that the on-site activities, the lake’s landscape, and the background of mountains and breezes all merge seamlessly, forming a unified environment inside and out.

AM I see “Naturing” as thinking about the relationship between the artificial and the natural. In selecting this project’s site, we learned that rather than developing untouched mountain land—leading to environmental damage—it was already designated as a park. Sakuragaike retains some clearly man-made aspects, but by introducing architecture there, we hope to reawaken nature’s presence and energy throughout the broader landscape. We want the finished structure to foster a harmonious environment that revitalizes the natural elements of this place rather than merely adding a building to it.

AM This area has long been a place where locals come to enjoy the view of cherry blossoms and spend time by the water. By adding outdoor activities, we aim to create a place that remains just as familiar in daily life, yet also offers people a fresh perspective on the water and the surrounding landscape.

TS Passing between the earthen walls that enclose the shops and bakeries scattered around this area, you emerge onto a plaza that brings you closer to the shoreline than before. From there, if you paddle a canoe out onto Sakuragaike, you may find yourself seeing the same everyday setting from the vantage point of seasonal waterfowl that arrive from afar. And at the covered plaza overlooking the entire area, you can take in the details of nature—rain, snow, and subtle changes—giving you a sense of time that differs from everyday life. Each facility’s exterior uses earthen walls composed of geometric units, evoking the nests built by the various creatures inhabiting these mountains. They can also resemble landforms carved out by flowing water. Over many years, the surface of these walls will continue to be etched by the harsh local weather, deepening their shadows and textures. I hope that, together with the activities of everyone who gathers here, these evolving walls will help foster a new landscape for the region in the years to come.