Written By Jude Jiang, Edited by Richard Trombly
While many people appreciate the idea of architectural preservation of classic homes, the social and economic realities often make preservation or renovation troublesome. This situation also applies to Kominka（古民家）, Japanese folk houses. While there are government programs and non-profit organizations such as Kominka Japan network that try to assist people in overcoming obstacles and challenges to preserving these homes, there are still many Kominka houses facing modernization, gentrification or demolition.
On a recent trip to visit a vacant Kominka house, I attempted to discover the hidden challenges of preserving a link to the past through these homes, which the elder generations deeply revered.
Co-existing with Nature on a Daily Basis
With about one hour of traveling by public transportation, I arrived in this little town called Kaizuka, Osaka about 35 kilometers away from downtown. The local residential architecture was a mix of modern low-story single family homes, commercial buildings and Kominka houses, which often take a larger parcel of the land. After another fifteen minutes of traveling, my guide and I were standing in front of a stately and impressive Kominka house. My first sight perfectly matched my expectation for Kominka, which is about living in harmony with Mother Nature. It was structured with natural materials of wood, clay, and stone, as well as ornamented with Japanese-style gardens with pine trees.
The guide of this visit was M-san, who used to live in this Kominka house for more than thirty years. The house’s history dates back more than 150 years to the initial house owner who was her great grandfather in-law and was a professional in agricultural work. Therefore, he designed the house for the convenience of conducting agricultural work indoors. For instance, different from the usually narrow modern entrance room, Gennkan （玄関） are mainly for changing shoes. The entryway in this Kominka house is so spacious as to bring in livestock saddled with crops.
It’s not hard to imagine that in an era lacking the aid of advanced machines, agricultural work could take laborious effort from animals and humans alike. However, when I encountered this ancient lifestyle directly in front of me, it was stunning to stand where the ancestors had lived through such physically demanding lives. A wooden ladder climbed from the entryway to a second-story loft, designed as a storage space for storing crops in a dry environment. Seeing how steep the ladder was, I ascertained that I would be barely capable of even climbing upwards, let alone carrying crops in hand at the same time.
It wouldn’t be exaggerating to think that the elder generation was more committed to living with nature, of which they had to take in both the pleasant and challenging aspects. While they brought in natural elements as ornaments and planted gardens to honor nature, on the one hand, more efforts had to be spent to co-exist with the harsher and crueler aspects affecting human lives. Can we, who have become so used to the conveniences of modern life, comprehend such an intimate yet challenging relationship with nature on a daily basis?
The Symbol of Home
The spaces within modern homes tend to be divided towards activities such as eating, sleeping, laundry, and so on. Likewise Kominka commonly exhibit rooms named by its function and there are a lot academic studies about utility and aesthetics related to different rooms. Not conducting an academic study, I attempted to simplify my focus down to the most basic yet significant behavior of human beings, which relates to cooking and eating. Here, I discovered the unexpected evidence of how meals took place at this Kominka house.
When M-san navigated me from one living room into the next chamber, she indicated the black soot staining the ceiling beams, “that was caused by using this Irori （囲炉裏）, a sunken hearth fired with charcoal throughout many years,” said M-san and she tapped a square space in the middle of the room, which now remains unseen, covered with Tatamis（畳）. I however remember having seen Irori in museums and older Japanese movies. Usually, above a stone-pit in the floor, there would hang a pot or kettle, equipped with a pothook to adjust the height.
Used not only for cooking and eating around, it was also for heating and even clothes drying, the Irori was regarded to be the center of household life. Imagine on a cold winter day, a farmer returned home from exhausting farm labor. He would be served with warm tea, soup, and a hot meal while spending quality time with his family. This all was centered around a single place, the Irori. He might even take a quick nap on the Tatamis beside the warm hearth. If the home is the place with food and love, wasn’t Irori the symbol of this home?
Whether for rich or poor families, household life centered on Irori were common for most people. Back then, people shared intimate family interactions. However, when it comes to modern times, a TV has become the center of the household life. Recently this trend has transformed into virtual interactions through mobile platforms rather than real interaction with family members. As a result, family ties become diluted and meanwhile members’ activities are increasingly insular. That being said, perhaps the modern symbol of home and family has retreated to the virtual world.
A Room for Public Purpose
By discovering eclectic collections of intergenerational treasures, I was able to partly solve the puzzle of what life was like over a hundred years ago. The vision couldn’t be more vivid than when M-san led me into the most captivating space, the Enkai-shitsu (宴会室）, a large banquet hall.
Facing a placid garden adorned with pine trees and a pond, this banquet hall happened to be the best location to appreciate the Japanese style of tranquility. Composed of three rooms with removable Fusuma （襖）dividers, a specific kind of wood and paper Japanese sliding door, this room occupies a large space within this Kominka house, bigger than all the other personal spaces added together.
“The room was packed with all the acquaintances when we held a family funeral decades ago,” said M-san, “Even as a local person like myself, a family event with such a big scale held indoors was impressive. From the front to the end of the room, guests were sitting feet-to-feet in three lines throughout.” Following the details as she recalled her memories, I noticed that at the very front of the first room, a gold-plated Buddhist altar was placed facing the entrance. Beside it was hung a traditional ink painting of a farm house among mountains and rivers. Apparently, both of these installations played a great role in spiritually leading attendants’ thoughts during those solemn rituals.
M-san further introduced that aside from serving the family for big events like weddings and funerals, the room was also used for holding community meetings. The locals used to gather here to discuss significant topics, such as proposals for improving living in the town and so on. I wondered since this room was so rich with sublimated elements of religion and art, what kind of inspiration permeated the residents’ discourse.
Whether it’s the sharing of lament, joy or wisdom, what happened in that meeting room belonged to the public. Whereas nowadays, speaking of home, it has a strong connotation of the ownership of private space. Critical family event like funerals rarely are held at home but in professional funeral homes. Community meetings are held in official governmental facilities. The boundary between private and public spaces has never been more articulate than now. Today, making a room for public purpose at home would seem quite eccentric, at best.
Pondering the fate of the Kominka culture
At the end of the visit, M-san told me that her family was facing a hard dilemma. They were told by elder generations that preserving this family Kominka house is essential. Burdened by this responsibility, it was very hard for her family to finally decide to sell the Kominka to the real estate agency. However, what can be related to me is that preserving a vacant house and witnessing the decayed life of this once-gorgeous architecture is also unbearably painful.
It is uncertain after this Kominka house is sold, whether it will be preserved, transformed into other architectural form or demolished for property. But I hope whatever happens it will provide some of the values of nature, home and community that this proud Kominka embodied for over a century.
