Kyoto is not entirely caught up in a time warp. Life marches on and the fast-paced urbanism that characterises modern Japan has its place even here. The Kyoto Railway Station offers a stunning experience of this side of the city. Hiroshi Hara designed this controversial, futuristic complex in the 90s. Controversial, because it was seen as a mar on the face of traditional Kyoto.
The facade is a medley of chequered plane glass and steel, a play with squares, solid and void, and other interesting elements coming together, seemingly incongruous, but strangely harmonious. The complex is huge, incorporating a shopping mall, hotel, movie theatre, department store, restaurants and several local government facilities under one 15-storey roof. It stretches for about half a kilometre, as we found out later in the day when we wandered through the mall looking for a place to dine in. Our first, quick glimpse however, was of the interesting, fractured facade and the "Matrix", the large, main hall with the exposed steel roof of girders in an intricate tangle.
To break up a building of this scale into diverse elements and string them together in a network of overall integrity is no mean feat. There was a vibrancy and energy that was palpable in the Matrix and the futuristic space was strangely welcoming. In sharp contrast to the wabi-sabi of the zen gardens and the starkly empty canvases of Tadao Ando, yet as much at home in modern Japan as they were. A contrast, but a welcome one. An architecture that takes itself seriously, yet retains a degree of playfulness.
The Kyoto Concert Hall presents a series of curved glass elements and a blank main facade. The entry is from the side, borrowing from the idea of a circuitous approach from Kyoto temples. Inside, a gently sloping, spiralling pathway leads to the foyer and the two concert halls. A cylindrical volume is clad in ceramic panels in a silvery black, the colour its architect, Arata Isozaki, thought best suited Kyoto.
The slight changes from panel to panel lend a subtle texture to the massive volume. In the words of the architect, "Ceramics never have perfectly flat surfaces or edges. This tolerance for slight imperfections might be said to be the architectural equivalent of that quality people in Kyoto refer to by the word Hannari, which is the highest compliment one can pay to a woman in the prime of life". So there it stood, the concert hall, like a quietly elegant lady in a kimono.
The kimono is an elegant outfit, expensive to dress up in, as another lovely lady by the Kamo river told us, because of the length of fine silk that goes into its making, and the elaborate hair and make-up that compliment it.
It is rare to spot a kimono in modern Japan, but not so much in Kyoto's charming nightlife hotspot - a very narrow alley, Pontocho by the Kamo River, that bustles with restaurants, bars and chayas or tea houses. A mix of western taste and Kyoto culture, the street was opened in the 1670s, on reclaimed land, and soon became a popular hang out.
We walked through Pontocho, pace slowed by the narrowness of it, admiring the beautifully done up shop fronts and stopped for awhile to listen to a group of musicians by the river. Later, enjoying a hot coffee and cake, with American jazz crooners piped in the background, we exchanged niceties in sign language with the lady owner of a tiny coffee shop, Yoshidaya, and looked through pictures of, and write-ups about, her self and her late husband in magazines. Though she spoke only Japanese, from all the cues in the little shop, the photographs and personal paraphernalia, we could manage to piece together bits of her story.
Popular in Chinese lore, is the poem of the Peach Blossom Valley, of an idyllic community chanced upon by a fisherman after a very long journey. "The woods and stream finally ended at a spring near a hill. He noticed a ray of light coming from a small cave at the foot of it. The fisherman jumped out of his boat and entered the opening. Once inside, he found himself on a narrow road, but traveling deeper, a splendid view suddenly opened before him". This was I.M.Pei's inspiration for the Miho Museum, built amidst the verdant greenery of the Shiga mountains, southeast of Kyoto.
The story goes that when he was shown the site, he called it Shangri-La, and wanted to create the mysterious approach as pictured in the Peach Blossom Valley poem. A walk or buggy ride through a narrow, enclosed bridge takes the visitor to the steps that lead up the museum entry - a low, faceted glass enclosure that opens up to the vast skylit spaces of the museum hall.
If surprise was the intent, it is well achieved in the Miho Museum. And the device used by the architect for the "splendid unfolding" is natural light. The flood of differently angled light through the faceted steel and glass roof of the main hall washes the warm, beige limestone walls and floor, casting crisscrossing lines of shadow and areas of shade. The effect is magnificent. Most of the building is buried into the mountainside, and one does not expect the expanse of it from the outer glimpse of its roof.
Bathed in the dappled light of the hallway, one can look upon the beautiful views of the mountain scenery outside. A one hundred and fifty year old red pine tree has been transplanted close to the building to frame the distant view.
A bell tower is seen in the distance, also designed by Pei, for Misono, the international headquarters and spiritual center of the Shumei organization, founded by the owner of the Miho Museum. Sometime after the Miho Museum was completed, Pei coincidentally found out that the valley its site overlooks is called 'Peach Blossom'.
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