Essay

Permanent impermanence

By Karen Severns

The Japan Times ran a feature story a few weeks ago under the headline "Are '70s landmarks savable?" Although its focus was the campaign being waged to save the Hanae Mori Building in Omotesando, its message was this: Like all too many preservation battles in Tokyo, the preservationists have already lost.

And when they lose, we all lose.

A city is not just its architecture, but buildings embody the collective memory of the nation — they are the most visible expression of a society's culture, values and history. So the continual transformation of Tokyo's built environment, with the constant disruptions of entire neighborhoods, tears at its social — as well as its physical — fabric, forever making impermanence the permanent condition.

The Japanese tell us that it was always so, with devastating earthquakes, fires, typhoons, tsunami and floods, followed by urgent rebuilding before the next convulsion. But these days, the obliteration of Tokyo's architectural legacy has far more to do with unnatural development than it does with natural disasters.Even as the Japanese become the world's oldest population, Tokyo's buildings keep getting younger. The average lifespan of apartment buildings is less than 30 years, with commercial buildings surviving only half as long.

The hallmark of a truly great city is architectural diversity — we laud the built landscapes of New York, London and Paris because we can sense the course of human history as we walk their streets and encounter well-known facades, both grand and humble, ancient and modern. Without their layering of different historical eras, Fifth Avenue, Portobello Road and the Champs-Elysees would not only lose their richness but their very significance.

Every day, another Tokyo building is endangered or razed, often with no public warning. Many more have become scabs of their former selves, with new skyscrapers thrusting from their midsections. Sometimes, an entire area gets a date with the wrecking ball, like Shimokitazawa, whose crazy, crowded streets filled with boutiques and funky cafes will soon be swept aside for a highway and massive office towers.

Yet we keep telling ourselves that all this expansion is necessary for progress, and besides, many of the new buildings are quite stunning, and their safety features and amenities are world class.

Tokyo's ultramodern architecture has joined manga and anime as a symbol of Japan's Gross National Cool, and the hiring of "starchitects" is now used by developers as a marketing tool.

But why must we sacrifice all of Tokyo's past for its future? Just as many tourists flock here to find Blade Runner as they do to find Old Edo, wouldn't it be so much more satisfying if they could still experience both?

[To be continued]

Shukan ST: Sept. 5, 2008

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