Monday, April 25, 2016

Kyo-machiya




There is a range of colors associated with Kyoto - matcha green, saffron orange, indigo blue, sakura pink - but the weather-beaten, caramel brown of the machiya (the traditional wooden townhouses) is probably my favorite.

Soon after I arrived in Japan in 2013 I began a series of paintings using burnt sienna.  I had never worked in this hue before, and I wasn't sure exactly why I started then.  I realized later Kyo-machiya (as they are called here in Kyoto) were the inspiration.

Historic European architecture is made of stone and brick.  In the U.S. it is concrete and steel.  But in Japan it is wood.  I'm sure there is a practical socio-geographic reason for this (an abundance of trees and a dearth of stone?) but I don't know.


koshi
komayose
mushiko-mado

Kyo-machiya came about with the rise of the merchant class in the Edo period (1603 - 1868), though most surviving structures were built in the 19th and 20th Century.  These deep, narrow one or two-story structures made of wood and ookabe-sukuri (mud daub and plaster) served a dual purpose of shop and residence.  There are a number of unique characteristics that define the machiya from the outside: the koshi (window lattice) which allowed for some privacy, the inuyarai or komayose fence designed to keep animals like horses away, the ceramic kawara (roof tiles), and the mushiko-mado (insect cage) windows on the second floor.  But for me, it is the sunburnt and rain-stained cedar sasarako jitami (overlapping weather board) that say machiya.

The shadowy interior of a machiya is no less distinctively appointed.  There is the spacious zashiki (living room) used for dining and entertaining, the straw tatami mat flooring, the decorated fusuma (sliding doors) which serve to divide the room into smaller units, and the tokonoma (alcove) where you will find kakejiku (hanging scroll) and ikebana (flower arrangement) displayed.


zashiki
tokonoma
tsuboniwa

Beyond the zashiki is the tsuboniwa (small courtyard garden).  This not only brings light and air into the house, but also connects it to nature providing the residents with a tranquil miniature landscape.  This connection to nature is an essential element of the machiya.  All the materials used to build a machiya are natural: wood, earth, straw, paper.  There is nothing artificial in their construction.  There is something wonderfully organic and human about the design and construction of these houses.

Sadly, the machiya are an endangered species.  The destruction of these traditional buildings began after the War in Kyoto's rush to modernize.  Whole neighborhoods were razed to make room for large apartment blocks, office buildings and parking lots.

Greedy real-estate developers have for decades manipulated a 1951 law designed to protect the city against fire hazard to their advantage.  A largely powerless and ineffectual preservation movement means the machiya continue to be destroyed at an alarming rate.  Today less than 45,000 machiya remain in Kyoto.

The housing market and banks have also had a hand in the obliteration of these old buildings.  Unlike in the West where the value of historic buildings increases over time, in Japan houses older than 30 years are generally deemed worthless.  The property has value, but not the house.  There is little incentive to renovate when banks will loan up to 10 times more for a tear-down than they will for a restoration.

In my own neighborhood, in the short time I've been here, I have seen half a dozen minka (traditional houses) destroyed, replaced by generic, pre-fab, plastic boxes completely void of any design aesthetic, character or charm.  And what's to become of this non-biodegradable material when these houses are torn down in 30 years time?

Kyoto is quick to boast of its many UNESCO World Heritage Sites, but seems oblivious to the fact that its living history, what makes Kyoto Kyoto is rapidly disappearing.  I do fear that one day Kyoto will look something like Osaka or the San Fernando Valley, and the machiya, what give Kyoto its lovely, warm color will be seen only in museum photographs.


Monday, April 11, 2016

The Great Sushi Debacle: Redemption

A couple weeks after arriving in Kyoto in 2013 I went for sushi in Gion.  This evening became known as the Great Sushi Debacle which was documented in an early post here.  Other than the local sushi joint in my old Uji neighborhood, and the occasional kaiten (conveyer-belt) sushi, I never really went out for sushi again.

A month ago the Japan Times ran an article about a restaurant in Kyoto where one could get good, seasonal sushi at a reasonable price.  The restaurant is called Tsukijisay, which is located in a subterranean space in a nondescript building behind Daimaru department store on Shijo-dori.

I happened to be in this neighborhood and decided to give proper sushi another try.  It was more than two years since my previous humiliation and the red in my face had long ago disappeared.

I was not greeted upon entering, as is the custom in most Japanese restaurants, which immediately gave me angst.  Oh no.  This is not good.  Leave.  Turn around and walk out the door.  Eventually a waitress acknowledged my presence and told me it would be about a 10-minute wait.

I was seated in the middle of the packed counter.  Other gaijin must occasionally dine here because they actually had an English menu.  The frustrating part about English menus in Japanese restaurants is that they are always very sparse.  They extend just to the limit of the owner's English writing ability, which is about 25% of the menu available to native speakers.  There was a seasonal special which was, after all, what I had come for, so I ordered that and a beer.

Once the menu disappears your point of reference is gone.  It is difficult or impossible to know if what you ordered is in fact the same thing that appears on your plate.  I've always found it best to just eat and enjoy what is served and not worry too much about whether it corresponds to my hazy memory of a laminated photo on a slapdash menu made for tourists.

The sushi was divine.  I'd almost forgotten how good fresh, made-to-order sushi can be.  I nimbly picked up each piece with my ohashi (chopsticks), dipped it in the soy sauce and popped it in my mouth.  It was as if I'd been born eating this cuisine.  All my apprehension vanished.  Each piece tasted better than the last.  I could feel the warm, belated glow of redemption.

Then something arrived on my sushi geta (tray) that immediately brought my anxiety back.  It was a kuruma ebi (imperial prawn) with its exoskeleton, legs, antennae and eyeballs all anatomically intact.  I stared at it for a while.  I ignored it and ate around it.  There were still several more approachable pieces of sushi to eat.

At last I asked the man next to me, "Sumimasen, doshite tabemasuka?"  (Excuse me, how do you eat this?)  The chef overheard my inquiry.  He made an air demonstration of  picking up the prawn with two hands and nibbling it like a small ear of corn.

We all chuckled at his performance.  Ha!  This time it was the sushi chef, not me, that looked silly.  Victory!