Many people in Japan choose to live in traditional homes.

Recently, this choice has taken on new significance.

These old homes are often furnished with wood and paper, and feature tatami mats - all natural materials.

The gradual changes wrought by time provide thoughtful reminders of what is important in our lives.

Old things are beautiful, and modern things convenient - life in an old home overturns these simple assumptions.

Danzuka Eiki lives in a traditional Japanese home and has worked on many environmental designs.

His works include this large bench in the garden of an urban apartment block.

It's a reminder of the open sky - something often forgotten in city living.

This art project features an herb garden in the shape of a person.

Each body part is planted with herbs said to heal that area.

It adds a touch of personality to familiar plants.

New inspirations lead to countless designs that connect us with the natural world.

Danzuka lives in a home he calls IKUSA.

It's a detached wooden building sheathed in galvanized iron.

Living in old homes connects past and present.

Explore further with Danzuka Eiki.

Hello, welcome to DESIGN TALKS plus. I'm Andrea Pompilio.

Hi, I'm Shaula.

Today is the first of a two-part series on revitalizing old homes.

Yeah, that's right. And we have a great guest today.

Let's meet landscape Artist Danzuka Eiki.

- Great to have you back!
- Thank you.

- Thanks for joining us.
- A pleasure.

Welcome back.

Shaula, you visited Danzuka-san's home?

That's right, I did!

It was an astonishing place. Really beautiful.

I'd love for you all to take a look.

Shaula is in Yokosuka, Kanagawa prefecture.

It's a hilly region.

Danzuka's home lies 128 steps up, on the slope of a hill.

Hello?

Hi.

- Hi.
- Great to see you again.

Likewise.

- So this is IKUSA?
- That's right, my home.

Simple and old-fashioned.

Galvanized iron walls.

It was built, I believe, 106 years ago.

That long ago!

And is this a cherry blossom tree?

Yes, a Somei Yoshino that's about a century old.

The branches are so beautiful!

It was in full bloom when I came to see the house.

I didn't even look inside.

You fell in love?

Bought it on the spot.

I can imagine...

I see there's a little pond here.

Yes, for killifish.

Oh really?

They were here when I moved in.

A fellow had apparently lived here on his own.

He was about a hundred years old and kept killifish behind the house.

I felt a responsibility to look after them.

They'd been here long before us, after all!

I wanted them to stay so I built this little pond.

The door mantel was lowered, so people naturally bow to the old home as they enter.

Immediately inside is a new discovery.

The killifish pond connects the inside and outside.

This is incredible!

I started out as a sculptor.

So I split the stone and shaped it so we can see the fish from inside, and feed them.

May I?

Please.

Look at this place.

Thank you.

You have a hearth!

We built a new one.

- You use it?
- Sometimes, yes. When it's cold.

The Shinto altar was built to frame the plum tree in the garden.

It's one more example of how Japanese architectural design is used to bring the outside inside.

Although the house is over a century old, it has been renovated several times.

Danzuka removed walls and ceilings from the ten rooms to reveal beams, pillars, and earthen walls.

He wanted to reveal the natural materials used in traditional architecture.

The rooms are divided by straw, hay, and other dried plants.

Another reminder of the natural world.

Removing the ceiling, the walls, and some of the pillars must have really changed the atmosphere.

Definitely.

A typhoon made those holes in the roof.

It leaked like crazy, water all over the floor.

But I left them and covered them with a translucent material.

Interesting!

They function as skylights.

And they're a reminder of history.

The galvanized iron walls mean it can feel cold or hot, but I've kept the old holes.

The house is designed to reveal the passage of time.

Danzuka's choice of furniture was also significant.

Set into the ground in the center of the home is a table of what is believed to be 3100-year-old cedar.

The previous owner lived here for a long time and had his own history.

I wanted to extend that sense of time all the way back, 3100 years.

We stand at the end of that long, continuous line and decide what comes next.

It's easy to forget that, but this space helps me to remember.

So you eat at this table?

Oh yes.

But eating meals out of plastic convenience store containers...

It can definitely feel a bit tragic.

- I'm sure!
- Right!

So, although I'm not a great cook, I do try to make my own meals when I can.

That's great.

What do we have in here?

Oh, it's a little more modern.

Yes, it's a brighter room.

It opens up completely!

Look at that view. Oh wow.

Yes, I sit here and gaze at the town below.

You can see everything.

Many cultural figures throughout history were said to live not deep in the mountains, but on hills where they could overlook the town or city below.

And I just happened upon a spot like that for myself.

You can see the station from here.

From this detached viewpoint, I think the flow of people coming and going feels different.

Usually if I see a station, I feel myself bracing for a crowd, you know?

Yeah, I get that.

But from up here, I feel like I'm in a different world.

Yes, a view from above.

Overlooking everything.

I wonder about the families living here and there.

I know what you mean!

And I let my mind go empty as I watch.

That's the lifestyle I've chosen.

IKUSA was really incredible.

Thank you.

It starts with that climb up the stairs.

It feels like the start of an adventure.

Like you're stepping into a forest.

The whole experience feels like a physical reminder of the importance of memory.

I really loved the Shinto altar.

It was so striking with the plum tree behind it.

Yes, so beautiful!

It just so happened the plum tree was right behind the window.

If you look on a map, there's a community shrine that was built just beyond.

The building itself sits squarely along the four cardinal directions.

It felt significant to me, so I did some digging.

It turns out there's a basin for ritual hand-washing, and signs for donations at the bottom of the stairs.

I think it might have been a Shinto shrine at one point.

Oh, interesting!

There's a lot you can only discover when you physically visit a place.

There's no way to design or plan without that in-person experience.

You can see the ways in which our predecessors lived there in harmony with nature.

Now I've picked up those threads and I'm weaving the next chapter of the story.

That's my role.

My lifestyle matters in this context.

The land and the environment around it.

That's true wealth, I suppose.

Your home is halfway up a steep hill, isn't it?

That's right.

I grew up in Saiki, in Oita Prefecture.

As a kid I'd get home from school, throw my bag down and race up the back hill.

It was so tall that several trees on top had been struck by lightning and were black and burned.

And underfoot was all this white sand.

I'd sit on the hill and spend the whole evening until sunset staring out at the landscape.

I think that experience is part of my personal foundation.

When I moved to Yokosuka, I found the sun rose on the other side of the hill, setting on the west.

It felt as though the sun had turned around in the sky.

It was so similar to those childhood experiences.

I felt a real connection to the long history of that landscape.

I'm so happy to have chosen that spot because I want to keep that memory close.

It really is the most extraordinary luxury.

Along with the sound of rain on the metal roof!

Amazing.

When it brightens up, I have a spectacular view and so much green.

There's so much nature there, and it's a reminder of how much we rely on the natural world.

The ultimate luxury.

I agree.

You mentioned in the video that a typhoon ripped holes in the roof.

It sounded rather cold.

- It is.
- It was cold.

- Of course!
- Definitely cold!

You were shivering!

- Just metal sheets.
- Between you and the weather.

Hot in the summer and cold in the winter.

What I found very interesting is that when I feel cold in a modern building like this one, it's extremely uncomfortable.

I want to leave as soon as I can.

But although IKUSA was cold, I didn't have any sense of discomfort.

I think that's because it's a natural temperature.

A natural way to feel cold.

That's exactly it.

Traditional houses only had sliding paper screens between the inside and outside.

And you get used to the temperature changes.

It feels like you're evolving!

Interesting.

The ideal for me would be a self-sustaining lifestyle.

Growing and cooking enough food for one.

There are so many wild plants, roots and herbs around the place.

I've learned to identify and gather them.

They're really quite delicious.

You actually cook with them?

Yes, I do.

I'd love more people to be in a position to do the same.

In Tokyo, there are no proper hills and no real access to the sea, either.

It's no wonder people are losing any sense of the wild.

I do think that landscape designers like myself need to offer designs that provide a certain harshness.

A real, rooted connection to the wildness of nature.

I think an element of that is necessary these days.

I agree.

I think we're seeing a swing towards designs that promote that kind of bone-deep vitality.

Now let's meet an Englishwoman with a love for traditional Japanese architecture.

Venetia Stanley-Smith lives in Ohara, Kyoto.

Her home is over a hundred years old.

Born to a titled English family, she found herself yearning for a different lifestyle.

She traveled to India, and then to Japan.

Here she fell in love with this old house.

She'd dreamed of shaping her own home and garden.

The home is full of antiques.

Venetia has lived here for nearly 30 years, making careful repairs along the way.

Wonderful!

Thank you, I'm delighted.

She takes great pains to clean the tokonoma alcove.

This nook is decorated with seasonal scrolls and decor.

This is a truly special space.

The idea of showcasing
seasonal furnishings is very important.

Japanese homes are not large.

I love that they still make space for ideas like this.

Venetia finds beauty in the old.

She's especially fond of one particular design.

These "ranma" are a feature of historical homes.

She cleans them carefully with her niece, India.

Long time ago, it was... well, it was a sign of wealth.

Because people who ordered it had some money to have it made.

But it's also practical because, in the summer, it's so hot...

that you know, we need some fresh air.

And this keeps air moving in the sort of place.

Oh I see. It's beautiful.

It's got amazing kind of intricate carving...

I think it's a wonderful idea, I really think.

It's shame now. They don't make it anymore. Very few people.

As artworks, ranma enrich the lives of residents as well as helping the flow of light and air.

This ranma has auspicious motifs.

Pines and cranes adorn both sides, with meticulously carved wings crossing the trees in a way that adds depth without requiring thicker wood.

I love the inside and outside design of the Japanese house - with the "engawa" and ranma.

It can connect us to the beauty of the garden and the world.

I love ranma as well.

They're often so detailed.

- They are.
- So elegant.

And of course also very functional!

That marriage of aesthetic and function feels very Japanese.

Japanese architecture divides homes into clear sections.

Since I was a child, my favorite part of Japanese homes has always been the engawa, or veranda.

It lies both inside and outside and it's such a comfortable space to be.

What's your take on spaces like this, Danzuka-san?

It's all about tying together different eras, I think.

The gaps that lie between.

In a city like Tokyo, the scrap-and-build approach has cut off huge swathes of history.

How do we reengage with the past?

It's the same with people.

How do we hold together in an era of social distancing?

I think it's our job as designers to find ways to form those connections.

Take the ranma - they have invisible functions.

As Venetia-san says, they also provide ventilation and light.

But without such incredible craftsmanship, we would never look twice at them.

It's artisans that carved those beautiful motifs into the wood.

They're what's drawing our attention to the fresh air and light.

I'm a huge admirer of that marriage between function and art.

I find it extraordinary.

I suppose few artisans are left these days?

Far fewer than there used to be, yes.

The other key issue is holding onto those ranma when the house is renovated or rebuilt.

If we keep pillars and internal decor like ranma, we can slot them into new houses.

But people tear down everything.

I think a lot of people see new or modern things as intrinsically better.

They do, I think.

The interior partitions in IKUSA, for example, use bamboo fences.

They're beautiful.

And it's a gardening technique.

I asked a professional gardener to do it.

But it works indoors as well.

- Bring it inside.
- Yes.

By incorporating it somewhere unusual, we might create demand, and we keep those skills alive.

I see, that freedom of expression actually helps to protect cultural artefacts.

Sometimes we need to tear down tradition and embrace the avant-garde.

Everything we consider traditional today started out as something new and progressive.

So I think we need to keep chasing those new ideas.

Takarazuka lies near Kobe in Hyogo Prefecture.

It's home to an avant-garde redesign of an old building.

A 110-year-old house in a residential area.

It's the home and studio of architect Miyamoto Katsuhiro.

It's a fascinating collision of wood and steel.

This has been the Miyamoto family home since his grandfather lived here.

Although the framework survived the 1995 Great Hanshin Earthquake, most of the house was lost.

Instead of tearing it down, Miyamoto kept the wooden structure and strengthened it with metal pillars and beams, giving it a new lease on life.

I didn't want to tear down a place with so many memories.

We speak of architecture as building vessels for memories.

Buildings lie at the root of so many people's memories.

Another factor was the government's demolition program.

A government support system was established for those affected by the earthquake.

Any home judged to have been totally destroyed would be demolished and removed for free.

This encouraged many to tear down rather than repair their homes.

As an architect, Miyamoto felt obliged to take a stand against this situation.

He looked for ways to repair his traditional home of wood and paper for a modern environment and continue living in it.

The result was a unique space with a metal skeleton.

He designed the repairs around his own lifestyle.

This metal structure helped the damaged building return to level.

It stands in a small, central courtyard.

One of the two pillars was deliberately set at an angle.

There's a bridge to the other room.

A straight pillar would block it off, so it's angled.

An extra diagonal girder balances it out.

And that's why we have that
angled beam on the first floor.

It was a complex undertaking, essentially building a second house within the original framework.

But Miyamoto even managed to preserve his childhood home's clothes drying area.

He left more nostalgic structures untouched, using a sculpting knife to pare them into shape around the metal.

After 25 years, the metal repairs have also become familiar to him.

It's just part of my living space now.

I only remember this exists when I have guests.

It's so familiar.

Nearly 30 years after the earthquake, Miyamoto still questions how we can continue living in historic homes in a disaster-prone country like Japan.

People used to 'dismantle' houses so they could be rebuilt.

Not torn down, 'dismantled.' That beam there was originally a pillar, I think.

We discovered it when we removed
the ceiling. Everyone was doing it.

Maybe it was their philosophy,
or the space itself, or the design.

We must examine this carefully.
It's not a choice of crush or keep.

There are other options.

Miyamoto-san's comment about not wanting to tear down the home he grew up in really resonated with me.

When I visited my own family home recently, I realized that if it ever disappeared, so would many of my memories.

So his comment really struck me.

And looking at his home you can see where the good and bad memories are intertwined.

He designed a bandage for a wound, and left it visible.

There are bad elements to all those good memories, but he wanted to preserve all of his own past.

I found that very moving.

I'd heard about his project and I've always been fascinated by it.

I've never been, but I would love to see it in person.

I think there's a grain of discomfort there.

Because there are two things at play in the design: Miyamoto-san's desire to keep his family home, and his questions for the larger world.

There's a very visible, major change to the house's timeline.

Something new has been forcibly inserted into its framework, which means they're going to quarrel.

That disparity is very interesting to me.

I imagine a lot of passers-by will stop to look at the house.

The familiar landscape before the earthquake is the past.

The moment the metal frame is added, it is visibly the post-disaster present.

Eventually that combination will become familiar, in just the way he mentions in the video.

He doesn't see it anymore.

Once it becomes just an accepted part of the landscape, that's the moment when we see a new future.

People will start thinking about adding a metal framework to their own homes.

That's new. It's revolutionary!

I agree.

You yourself live in a historic home.

Do you have any thoughts on the future?

A vision for any next steps?

I think the heart of the answer is about lifestyles.

About what works for you, or for your family.

If you don't dig into how you want to live, any renovation is going to end up being purely cosmetic.

In my line of work, I'm often told that it's cheaper to simply tear down a building.

But is that really true?

Sure, maybe it'll cost you less money.

But if you have memories of living there - memories of your mother or grandfather - then destroying your home could be very expensive indeed!

It could cost a lot more than you might realize.

I want people to truly think about how they want to live.

We're talking about the space where you'll write your own stories.

Where your children will write their sequels.

Your grandchildren.

It's an endless, ongoing story.

And I want that story to remain permanently.

I've really enjoyed our conversation today, and I hope to visit your house some time!

I'd love to visit again!

Come see the cherry blossoms.

Thank you so much.

- Thank you.
- Thank you!