I watched all my castles fall/ They were made of dust after all

PHOENIX/ If i ever feel better from A.C.E on Vimeo.

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Miyajima

On the same day as our visit to Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, we took the JR Ferry to Miyajima, a small island just ten minutes off the coast of mainland. The ocean that surrounds this area is greatly affected by strong tides, resulting in a dynamic shoreline that remains in a constant state of flux. Taking full advantage of this, the founders of the island established Itsukushima Shrine, a beautiful architectural work that is directly influenced by the changing water levels. During low tide, the shore sits beyond the island’s torii, allowing the public to walk on the damp ground directly beneath. In a matter of hours, this land becomes completely covered by ocean waters, enabling the structures to “float” neatly. The change is dramatic, giving the shrine a graceful air.

Part of what makes this whole experience so powerful is the feeling that one gets when standing on the temporary ground. While inhabiting this space, there was never a moment that I was not reminded of this impending change. The most prominent indication of this is the dark watermark along the stone perimeter walls. This is reiterated by the groupings of algae that cover the base supports of the giant torii. Together, these features enable the visitor to envision the approaching water level in relation to their current position. Most will realize that by high tide the water is deep enough to cover them completely.

Because the island is so mountainous, the majority of settlements exist as part of a small town near the shrine. Our group spent the night at a ryokan, or traditional Japanese inn, within this town. Here, we were able to experience a very Japanese style of living involving tatami, yukata (a type of kimono), and communal baths. Late in the afternoon, we received a formal dinner comprised of a number of small dishes.

That night we were able to view the torii over the calm waters of the night, its orange glow softly interrupting an otherwise dark sea. The once lively streets were now completely quiet, seemingly frozen in the bleed of light from the surrounding lanterns.

The following morning, we explored the interior of the shrine, and gazed out toward the gate while standing over the ocean waters.

By the end of the day, the tide had again pulled back, inviting visitors to explore the temporary shoreline.

Hiroshima

Our first destination on the week of travel was Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, a complex that serves to educate the public on one of the most devastating events in human history, the detonation of the last wartime atomic bomb. Constructed along an axis, the park is comprised of the Museum and the Atomic Bomb Dome, each standing at opposite ends of the site. The Grand Plaza between these elements acts as an extension that links the wartime relic with its modern counterpart. This connection is made all the more clear by the long fountain containing the cenotaph and peace memorial, both standing in perfect alignment. One is therefore able to view the dome directly through these elements, reiterating its importance as a marker of devastation.

The Dome stands preserved in its ruined state, virtually undisturbed since the bombing in 1945. Because the explosion occurred almost directly above the building, the floors were blown completely out while many of the walls remain standing. Standing in stark contrast its surroundings, the Atomic Bomb Dome is a scar that constantly reminds its visitors of the devastation that leveled the city.

The raised concrete volume at the opposite end of the site takes this example even further. Though it is a beautiful gesture from the exterior, the articles contained within leave the visitor with a heavy burden. Through a collection of relics, photographs, and anecdotes, one is provided a full synopsis of the aftermath pertaining to the event. In spite of this, the people of Hiroshima regard the exhibit as an example from which much can be gained. As a museum of peace, it forces one to confront the effects of nuclear war, thereby establishing the imperative that humanity take strides away from this endeavor.

Unfortunate Events

Completely awestruck from my experience at the Church of Light, I came back to our residence and attempted to import pictures from my camera. After it “finished” copying all of the images, the program asked if I wanted to keep or delete the duplicates that remained on the camera. I chose “Delete,” which on a normal day works perfectly fine. Today, however, was the one exception. The program crashed. None of the images made it on to my computer, and barely any remained on the camera.

Disappointed by this, I resolved to visit the church on my own. I contacted the pastor and scheduled an appointment for the following Saturday, a day that coincided with our first week of travel. Given the circumstances, I had a limited amount of time to view the church before our departure. Thus, I left early and expected to be back in Kyoto that afternoon.

Over the course of the upcoming week, we would rely fully on the Japan Rail pass for unlimited transportation on any JR line, including the high-speed bullet trains. For the sake of being prepared, I had obtained mine early in the morning. This enabled me to ride the bullet train to Osaka, cutting a significant amount of time out of my trip.

After arriving at Ibaraki station, I discovered that I had no change in my pocket. I also noticed that I had forgotten to bring my wallet, and therefore had no means of obtaining any money. Oddly enough, I had a pocket full of US dollars, but because the banks were all closed, I had no means of exchanging any of it. Thus, I was unable to buy a bus ticket, and was forced to walk. After a half hour on foot, I was standing in front of the church only to discover that it had closed, and that it would be another two hours before I could go in. I was frustrated.

At this point I had to make a decision. I could either accept the fact that the odds were against me, and return back to Kyoto, or I could keep myself occupied while waiting for the church to open. Should I wait, I would be forced to rush back to the station, as everyone back in Kyoto was meeting up an hour later. I couldn’t bring myself to leave without pictures of the church, and concluded that I needed to wait.

I decided to walk around town for a while, but given that I had no money, I could not stop anywhere to get lunch. Instead, my meal for the day consisted of a loaf of bread, a leftover from our kitchen that had been cleaned out for the move. After an extended period of walking around aimlessly, I headed back to the church. The wait proved to be worth it, as I got to experience the building on a more personal level, without the noise of 18 other students. The space inside was calm, offering an undisturbed silence. It was truly amazing.

Upon the conclusion of my visit, I ran back to Ibaraki station. Just as I was about to walk through the gate, I noticed that I no longer had the rail pass. I searched my bag numerous times, but found nothing. Either it fell out somewhere, or someone had picked it out of my pocket. At that moment, I realized that I was stranded. I had no money, which meant that I could not buy a ticket or contact anyone. To add insult to injury, the loss of the rail pass meant that I had just thrown away close to three-hundred dollars.

After attempting to communicate in Japanese with the employees at the station, I was able to convey what had happened. A man took my exchange voucher for the pass and went into the back for a while. At this point I was hopeful that somehow, out of some act of grace, I would be given another pass. The hard reality hit when he returned with a photocopy and a note that read in English, “We will make an effectual search of it.”

I asked if I could make a call, and explained that I had no money, following which he provided me with a cell phone. I called my professor, who decided that someone would branch off and pick me up. My friend, Trent, immediately stepped up.

I waited, briefly retracing my steps and finding nothing. An hour passed, and no one arrived. I walked around the station, every 5 minutes glancing back at the gate, seeing crowds of unfamiliar faces. I waited… and waited… and still, no sign of Trent. At this point, I became very worried, and was positive that he had misunderstood where I was. An hour turned into two hours, which then turned into three. When you are conscious of time, it begins to move very slowly. This is something that I felt, as my eyes continually watched the minutes pass. It was now very dark and rainy outside.

I decided that it was hopeless, and walked to the edge of the station thinking that I might have more luck searching for an abandoned rail pass. I was on the verge of giving up and was literally walking away when something made me turn around. Ten minutes later, my friend walked through the gate.

I cannot begin to describe the immense feeling of relief that swept through me. Up until this point, I had been running scenarios through my head. I was under the impression that I would have to wait in the station all night, alone, hoping for an opportunity to exchange money the following morning. I literally had no options.

The day ended with us checking into our hotel in Hiroshima, ten minutes before our room was given up to other customers. A frustrating and uncertain event, but I did my best to remain optimistic, in spite of the situation. It was a rough start to what our professor termed "A week off."

Hyogo Prefectural Musuem & The Church of Light

On a study tour to Kobe and Osaka, our class visited two prominent works by Tadao Ando. The first of these was the Hyogo Prefectural Museum, a large-scale complex that sits at the edge of an open waterfront. Though somewhat unconventional in terms of style, it is successful in capturing the timeless essence associated with so many of his projects. This is a product of Ando's careful usage of space, materials, and light.

The museum is composed of three massive rectangular volumes, together exuding a very monumental air. As one walks around these structures, they are able to feel the stillness of space surrounding them. Though they are already quite large, the emphasis placed on the verticality of these elements, as well as their distinct directional qualities, makes them seem a great deal larger.

There are a number of moments in the museum in which one truly experiences a depth of space. The first of these is the elaborate spiraling staircase in main plaza, a powerful concrete gesture that cuts through the ground plane.

Second, the transparent corridors that define each mass present tall, uninterrupted volumes, impressive for their expansive nature.

The space that impresses me the most, however, is the vaulted square that services each floor of the museum. Here, the stairs emerge out of the thick perimeter walls of concrete. The effect is as if the walls have been sliced, and solid pieces removed, creating a voided circulatory volume. The glass railway that emerges from this condition is both elegant and beautiful.

Directly adjacent to the museum sits Nagisa Park, an extension that was meant to serve pedestrians of the waterfront. The elements that comprise the park are nice, yet they stand lifeless from a lack of public interaction. Because the development is so expansive, it feels in large very empty. The only people inhabiting the space are bums that have settled under the shelter of the horizontal planes.

The final stop of the day was Ibaraki, a small city in Osaka, where we viewed one of the most important examples of contemporary architecture, Tadao Ando’s Church of Light. Seeing this project firsthand proved to be the most valuable experience I have had since being in Japan. Though one can analyze the church through drawings and photographs, these depictions pale in comparison to the feeling one gets when inside the space.

The church is comprised of two concrete rectangles that are cut at fifteen-degree angles by freestanding walls, halfway along their outer edge. This arrangement is effective in interrupting the solidity of the walls, bringing light into the interior space. The full height glass that emerges from the split is an element that further impacts this reading. While the nature of the concrete is very heavy, details such as these are effective in giving it an entirely new understanding, one that is associated with lightness and grace.

Although there are two volumes, the main chapel is the heart of the building. In order to enter, one must pull back a large glass sliding door, the height of which travels all the way to the roof. Once the door is closed, you become completely enveloped by the silence of the interior space. The only interruptions to this silence are the sounds made by visitors. Every step is echoed through the space, amplified by the surrounding walls.

The composition of the chapel is beautiful. The near black finish on the wood of the floor and pews is a perfect complement to the polished concrete of the walls and ceiling. In addition, the steel and glass elements flow elegantly with the moves of the structure. Not a single element stands in opposition to the whole. It is, in a sense, flawless.

Though the material qualities are nice, this space owes its power to the bleed of natural daylight that occurs in specific moments of the building. The most powerful of these is the voided cross that cuts through the back wall. Though the nature of the wall is very heavy, the cross splits the entirety of this piece along the vertical and horizontal axes, thereby suggesting the dominance of the illuminated void. The suggested parallel between this gorgeous detail and the Christian faith adds an entirely new layer to the beauty of the project.