This is an ordinary Japanese home...
..but every day it produces something extraordinary.
I'd like to introduce you to my lunch.
This is a bento box.
Now, it's said that in Japan,
you eat with your eyes. It's really, really important to appreciate
the appearance of what you're about to consume.
And, what's more, this bento box even carries meaning.
Its theme is Japan's favourite season - spring.
So, these little things are cut into the shape of cherry blossoms
and there are a number of vegetables including this rape blossom
that only come out in the springtime.
So this little bento box is almost like a work of art.
It's got technique, it's got form,
it's got meaning, it's got symbolism,
and it's almost too beautiful to eat.
In Japan, much of domestic life is informed by aesthetics.
The home itself can be a work of the imagination...
..and many of the activities that take place inside it
are performed with precision and grace.
The modern world was thought to have destroyed
the ancient Japanese art of life,
but beauty still abounds...
..as artists reinvent these old traditions for a new era.
But the Japanese house has also influenced the West.
It helped create modern architecture as we know it...
..and transformed how many of us live today.
Japan has a population of 127 million people.
It is one of the most densely inhabited places in the world.
And the vast majority of people live in endless cities, in small flats.
But it wasn't always like this.
100 years ago, 85% of Japan's population lived in the countryside,
and they had done for centuries.
Most of their rural homes are long gone.
But a few remain.
Miyama is one of Japan's last surviving traditional villages.
And these are minka -
vernacular houses once lived in by most of Japan's people.
These minka might look rustic,
but they're actually an amazing piece of technology,
designed to combat the extremes of the Japanese climate.
The thatched roofs are steep enough to wash away the heavy summer rains
and the winter snows,
and the buildings have been lifted off the ground
to create as much ventilation as possible during the hotter
and more humid months of the year.
And Japan's geography even dictated the way they were built.
One of the defining features of this village,
and indeed much of Japan's traditional architecture,
is the abundance of wood.
It's absolutely everywhere.
There are at least two reasons for that.
The first reason is that wood is plentiful in Japan,
while stone, which is mostly volcanic here,
is too hard to build with.
The second reason, and this is a little bit morbid I'm afraid,
is that on the whole, wooden houses are safer.
Yes, they're more likely to burn down,
but they're less likely to crush their occupants
in the event of an earthquake
and easier to reassemble in its aftermath.
But though Japan's traditional house builders took up woodworking
for practical reasons, they very quickly turned it into an art form.
In fact, Japanese craftspeople pioneered
a consummate form of carpentry unequalled in the West.
And were able to construct whole houses without screws,
nails or glue.
Just ingenious techniques.
These techniques are still in use today...
..here at Nakamura Yoshiyaki's workshop in Kyoto.
Nakamura is one of Japan's most respected sukiya-daiku,
or master carpenters.
To become a sukiya-daiku,
one must master a complex code, combining ethics and practicalities.
It's even present in the way a carpenter uses his tools.
Respect is a cornerstone of the sukiya-daiku's philosophy,
and it also applies to materials.
In Japan, wood is more than a commodity.
According to Shinto, it comes from a living, even sacred organism,
and has to be treated with reverence.
Nakamura and his carpenters teach this philosophy to
the younger generations.
Each apprentice trains for five years.
Through often menial tasks,
they learn the correct attitude and techniques.
In Japan, people talk a lot about the spirit of the shokunin,
the spirit of the craftsman, or artisan,
and that spirit is abundantly clear here in Mr Nakamura's workshop.
The men are working with such precision and focus.
They are measuring and re-measuring and re-measuring again
to get everything just right.
And perhaps most surprisingly of all,
they are working in almost total silence.
There's no chitchat, there are no jokes,
there is unbelievable concentration on the work at hand.
And I get a real sense here of a deference, of a pride,
in belonging to a grand old tradition of carpentry
and house-building that goes back way into the Japanese past.
One of Japan's finest surviving homes can be found in Yokohama,
on the outskirts of Tokyo.
This is Rinshunkaku.
It was built in 1649 by a samurai lord called Yorinobu Tokugawa.
The owner's main residence was a fortified castle
filled with armaments, but when he wasn't working,
he'd come here to his fantasy home.
This was his refuge,
a place for contemplation and aesthetic reflection.
But looking at it today,
you know what I find most striking about it, is its modesty.
At exactly the same time,
European rulers were building these vast baroque palaces,
and this, by contrast, is so humble.
In fact, the only outward sign of extravagance is the second storey,
which was almost unheard of in Japan at the time.
It's clear where this house got its inspiration.
The low eaves, the wood, the way it's raised up from the ground -
it refers back to the minka of Japan's rural past.
Refined and elaborated.
But the real beauty lies inside.
It is influenced by the simple aesthetic of Zen Buddhism.
And it contains all the ingredients of
the traditional Japanese interior.
The rooms are open-plan and free from clutter.
The exterior walls are shoji screens,
whose paper surfaces infuse the home with soft otherworldly light.
The floors are tatami,
rice straw mats that dictate the size and proportions of every room.
But the most important feature of this house is almost invisible.
It is a unique Japanese concept known as ma.
Ma is of fundamental importance to Japanese aesthetics,
and its way of life.
It refers to the negative spaces between things.
The most obvious example of ma is silence.
If I were to pause...
..midway through this sentence, we might find it unsettling.
But in Japanese thought, that gap, that interval,
is just as full and just as full of meaning as
the words that surround it.
Now, ma appears in many Japanese art forms, it appears in painting
and calligraphy, in drama and in martial arts,
but it's also present in Japanese homes,
and Rinshunkaku is full of it.
Just look around
and you'll find negative space everywhere.
Rinshunkaku's floor plan is endlessly flexible.
Partitions slide behind one another to open up the rooms.
Even the outside walls are movable.
The effect is one continuous space, and it extends even to the outdoors.
Light, functional, versatile,
Rinshunkaku is a lesson in domestic design.
And houses like it have profoundly influenced modern architecture
in the West, in the work of architects
and designers like Frank Lloyd Wright...
..Charles and Ray Eames...
Walter Gropius...
and Le Corbusier.
When modernist architects and designers first encountered
traditional Japanese houses, they were astonished.
As far as they were concerned, this was modernist architecture
that just happened to be hundreds of years old.
And of course, today, open-plan living,
minimalist interiors and clean, simple lines have become
the very principles of 21st-century living,
but those principles were pioneered centuries ago in houses like these.
Amid all this minimalism,
one place in the Japanese home was reserved for extravagance...
..and was dedicated to decoration.
It was known as the tokonoma.
It might look like an empty recess,
but this alcove was once the heart of the Japanese home.
The owner of the property would sit here,
and was therefore framed by his tokonoma.
But his tokonoma would also be the stage set
for some carefully selected objects.
The tokonoma would include a scroll, often with calligraphy...
..and it would be joined by a simple floral arrangement...
..which had to be just so...
..because this was an art form in its own right -
ikebana.
Many Japanese people are obsessed with flower arranging.
Because ikebana is not only a hobby,
but a highly personal form of expression.
A popular art form of domestic life,
there are over 1,000 ikebana schools in Japan today.
But its origins lie in religion.
It started here at Shiunzan Chohoji Temple in Kyoto.
In the 15th century,
it was the home of a Buddhist monk called Senkei Ikenobo.
Ikenobo was responsible for arranging offerings to the Buddha...
..and he was particularly enamoured of flowers.
On 25th of February, 1462,
Senkei Ikenobo made a very special flower arrangement.
It was a complex freestanding construction
of about a dozen different flowers in a golden vase,
and it was replete with symbolism.
Now, apparently it caused something of a stir.
In fact, the people of Kyoto flocked to the temple
simply in order to get a look at it.
We don't know exactly what the flowers looked like,
but Senkei Ikenobo did leave us some clues.
This is a really quite special document.
It's a five-metre long scroll that dates back to the 1480s, 1490s.
And for years it was locked away and hidden away from sight.
Its contents were known as the secret transmissions
and were passed only from one master to the next.
Even today, no-one is entirely sure of its exact meaning.
But this part of the scroll seems to offer us a glimpse of
the very earliest ikebana creations.
They are, of course, beautiful drawings,
and they're perfectly preserved,
but what's so fascinating about them is
the text around them reveals how each one of these arrangements
served a different function
and captured a different moment in people's lives.
So, this one on the left is called a farewell flower.
It's an arrangement you make when you're saying goodbye
to a family member or a friend or a colleague.
And this one on the right is pretty much the opposite.
It's called a waiting flower,
and it's something you make when
you're waiting for a loved one to return.
And this final arrangement,
this was made to celebrate a young person becoming a monk.
There is still much to be learned from this document,
but I think it makes clear that
ikebana was not simply flower arranging,
it was a subtle and elusive medium that was all about expressing
the joys and the hardships of life.
And over 500 years of history,
practitioners of ikebana have attempted to master it.
This is Manabu Noda.
He may look like a bank manager,
but he is one of Japan's most respected ikebana masters.
Students come to Ikenobo from around the world
to see him work wonders with flowers.
There are very specific guidelines about looking at ikebana.
You position yourself here, one tatami mat back from the tokonoma,
and it's very, very important that you are face-to-face with
the arrangement. You can't be looking at it from the sides.
Anyway, once you have your position, take a breath...
..compose yourself and then you can begin to look.
And you have to begin by looking at the very base of the arrangement.
You're looking specifically at the point at which
the plants first emerge from the water.
Now, that's a really, really important part of ikebana.
It's known as the mizugiwa, the water's edge,
and that is the origin of life itself.
Anyway, once you've meditated and reflected on that,
then you begin to raise your head and follow the line of
the plants upwards and upwards and upwards
until you reach the very top.
And when you reach the very top, take another breath...
..and then you can begin to appreciate
the arrangement in its entirety.
It consists of three plants.
Japanese iris...
..spiraea and green maple.
They've been chosen because of the season,
reflecting a specific moment when late spring turns into early summer.
The composition of this piece is absolutely fantastic.
It's all about visual harmony,
so there is harmony between the different colours,
between the purples and the whites and the greens,
there's harmony between straight lines and curves, and of course,
there's also harmony between positive space and negative space,
between the flowers and the ma that exists between them.
This is known as a shoka arrangement.
Now, shoka in Japanese means living flower.
And this arrangement really does chart the life story of a flower.
We see how at the beginning
it emerges from the ground and shoots upwards
and then gets affected and bent by the elements,
by the wind and the rain,
but it continues its journey nonetheless.
So, there is a real sense of a life story taking place here,
and I love this allusion to different stages in life.
So two of the irises are blooming quite beautifully,
but another one is still in bud.
And in some ways that's even more important
because that is about the future and is about hopes for the future.
You know, I never thought I'd say this,
but it really is quite moving to look at this arrangement
because, while on the surface,
it is all about the life story of a group of plants,
it's impossible not to reflect on our own lives too.
The journeys we have to make, the hardships we have to endure,
and of course, the transience of life itself.
Who would have thought that a group of flowers
could contain so much meaning?
But ikebana is not simply floristry.
It is a domestic art form full of style and symbolism.
And it's not alone.
In the traditional Japanese tokonoma,
ikebana is accompanied by a hanging scroll.
This often contains another of Japan's great ancient art forms.
Calligraphy, or shodo.
Shinochooji is a quiet neighbourhood, not far from Kyoto.
And this is the home of one of
the rising stars of Japanese calligraphy.
Every day, Tomoko Kawao practices for three or four hours,
copying great works by history's shodo masters.
To create each character, there's a set order of strokes.
A pattern that hasn't changed for millennia.
Tomoko is best known for her monumental works of calligraphy,
and it is captivating to watch her make them.
Tomoko's painting reads Shu-Ha-Ri,
a traditional phrase which describes the stages of mastering a form.
To learn, to break away and finally to transcend.
This is such a dynamic image.
It reminds me of a Jackson Pollock or a Franz Kline,
and I love the variety of marks here.
There are these big long swipes that are three or four feet long,
there are spatters and there are paint trails
and there are these droplets that seem to explode into a spray.
And over there, there's a huge puddle of ink
that hasn't even dried yet.
It's amazingly exciting to look at,
but this isn't simply about the image,
it's about the action that produces the image.
This is an art of the body.
It's about discipline, about control, about movement.
Calligraphy, of course, is an ancient art form, but in this room
and on this paper, it couldn't be more alive.
Today, most Japanese homes seem far removed from
the country's graceful traditions.
Everyday life may be ordered and peaceful,
but it isn't particularly Japanese.
Critics have claimed that people no longer care about
preserving their native traditions.
Here, at least, in Kyoto,
there are signs that one of Japan's everyday art forms
is still being embraced.
The kimono, Japan's national costume.
But these people aren't locals.
They're mostly Asian tourists who've paid vast sums of money
to play-act Japan's past.
Over the past century, Japan has had to negotiate a tricky path.
How to keep its heritage alive and relevant amidst
the perpetual change of modern life.
Since the 1950s,
Japan's booming population transformed
the way its citizens lived.
It produced vast sprawling cities across the country,
most of them formed without any planning to speak of.
Much as we like to valorise the art of the Japanese home,
Japan's rapid urbanisation in the 20th century has made domestic life
extremely challenging.
In Tokyo, more than 6,000 people inhabit every square kilometre.
And this has led to homes becoming smaller,
precisely as they become more expensive.
Barely a month goes by without a story appearing in the press
about young Tokyo workers living in apartments
that aren't much larger than coffins.
Incredibly, the average Japanese home now only lasts for 30 years.
Inheritance tax is so high that it's often cheaper to bulldoze
the family home and start again.
The relentless rebuilding of Japan in the post-war years
has produced vast swathes of awful architecture
and some really horrible homes,
but it's also created opportunities.
There are more architects per capita in Japan
than in any other country in the world.
And because of relaxed planning regulations
and severely limited space,
these architects have been able to take creative risks
that aren't always possible elsewhere.
And the humble home has become the ground zero of experimentation.
All sharp edges, repeated forms and concrete walls.
Even in the most sleepy neighbourhood, you'll stumble upon
houses that seem to have crash-landed from the future.
Or at least from some postmodernist textbook.
Some have no windows, and others, no walls.
But there is method in this madness.
Japanese cities can be aggressively ugly and messy places.
And modern houses like this one are, I think,
part of a fight against that.
They're an attempt to make spaces that are beautiful and ordered
and peaceful amid the seemingly endless
urban chaos that surrounds them.
They are, in many respects, a return to the ancient lessons of Zen,
but crossbred with modern minimalism.
In fact, what we might call zenimalism has become a trademark
of Japan's most famous architects like Tadao Ando...
Toyo Ito...
..and Kengo Kuma.
They have established zenimalism as a major national style of architecture,
and exported it to the rich and famous around the world.
But though zenimalism began with the rich, it soon reached everyone else.
A number of companies began to commercialise the new aesthetic...
..packaging Japanese minimalism for the mass market.
And the most successful of them all was Muji.
Since 1980, Muji has been turning Zen into an off-the-peg commodity.
This high street nirvana proved exceptionally successful.
The company is now worth more than 2 billion,
and has nearly 700 stores around the world.
Its famous name is an abbreviation of mujirushi, which means no brand,
yet image is what Muji is all about.
Its shops are decorated like luxury spas.
Pointless appliances are deceptively functional...
..and products have clean lines and plain colours.
The whole thing seems modern and international...
..but there are nods everywhere to ancient Japanese aesthetics.
This is a revealing example of the Muji aesthetic.
A bag of stones.
Now, there's nothing fancy about it.
The stones themselves are perfectly unremarkable,
and the packaging is almost comically restrained.
No logo, no poetic description,
just stone written in Japanese
and then of course underneath in English.
But though at first it seems like such a simple product,
it is in fact full of references.
It taps into these great old Japanese ideas about
the mysteries of nature, about modesty and imperfection.
And of course, when you arrange these stones in a bowl in your home,
you are continuing a tradition that goes all the way back
to the great Zen rock gardens of the past.
In much of its advertising,
Muji offers up a timeless vision of the Land Of The Rising Sun.
It also offers to bring the beauty of Zen into your home,
provided you purchase its products.
Many of us think that Muji epitomises the Japanese aesthetic,
that it's the product of an entire people
who miraculously understand that less is more.
But Muji isn't the real Japan,
just like IKEA isn't the real Sweden
and Laura Ashley isn't the real Britain.
The real Japan is anything but Zen.
It's a place of urban clutter,
exposed power cables
and small, messy homes.
To understand these homes,
I've come to an apartment block in the heart of Tokyo
and to one of the great chroniclers
and champions of contemporary Japanese life.
Like half of all Tokyo dwellers,
photographer and journalist Kyoichi Tsuzuki
lives in a single-person apartment,
where one space is used for several different functions -
living, working and sleeping.
Not to mention storage.
But Kyoichi is one of the lucky ones.
It's not uncommon for a family of four to live in a space this size.
It's a long way from the fantasy adverts of Muji.
When a lot of Western people in particular think of Japanese homes,
they think of tatami mats...
Yeah... and shoji screen and Zen and minimalism.
Yeah. What do you think about that conception?
It's quite a bit embarrassing, I think, no?
It's just because we think of British lifestyle is like
Downton Abbey or something, you know.
So, it's not real at all.
Fake news, you know?
Fake news. Yeah.
For over 25 years,
Kyoichi has been tirelessly documenting
the homes of Tokyo's youth.
Until recently, no-one talks about...
..normal people, normal life.
In Tokyo today, the average size of an apartment is 60 square metres,
the equivalent of 36 tatami mats.
For example, you know, this is a typical...
Tokyo apartment...
like you... So, is this all one apartment?
Yeah, it's all one apartment.
Do you remember the person who lived here? Was it a student or...?
He was a... He was a young, cartoon, manga artist.
You know, whenever I go to those apartments, I just tell them,
don't try to clean up, you know.
I want to see as you live.
Yes. I feel like I'm showing like a dark outside of Tokyo.
In his seminal 1993 book, Tokyo: A Certain Style,
Kyoichi photographed portraits of 100 people,
not by capturing their faces, but their flats.
In doing so, he documented the lives of ordinary city dwellers
who'd been largely ignored.
This is a house...
of a guy who is a music critic.
You go into a small path,
and there's a really old Japanese-style house, you know.
Really cheap. Wow!
Look at that. Yeah. Oh, my gosh!
So... He needs some more shelves, doesn't he?
I know, I know.
The shelving is already full, you know...
Yeah. So, he has to just pile his new CDs all the time, no?
But, what...?
What's going to happen when he needs, like, this one,
and he has to grab the bottom one?
You talk about empty space.
There's that word - ma.
Ma. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
You didn't see much of it in your travels.
No, no.
There's no space for ma, I think.
No space for space. No space for space, exactly.
To traditional critics,
these homes epitomised all that was wrong with modern Japanese life.
We forget that Zen attitude or philosophy
and we lost our classic aesthetics and everything,
so it was so negative point of view towards...
modern life, and I wanted to change that.
I met a young DJ wannabe.
He lives in that four and a half tatami room.
So, this is all one room?
Yeah, yeah. Three metres squared.
That's his...? The entire floor space would be...?
One metre. But, you know, there is a famous saying in Zen,
that you need only a half tatami to meditate.
Only one tatami to sleep,
so more than that is just a luxury.
Kyoichi's work documents a fascinating urban phenomenon.
Within the confines of tiny spaces,
people have found remarkable freedom.
Plundering East and West, old and new,
their magpie aesthetic has produced a style that both is
and isn't Japanese, and seems genuinely democratic.
I mean, going into a rich people's place is not interesting at all, no?
Because it's Zen, it's not their lifestyle,
it's a decorator's lifestyle, no?
Or a architect's lifestyle.
Because minimalism is to hide your personality, so I was...
I was really into going to, you know, poor kids' apartments
because let's show us their lifestyle.
There's no closet, no?
So you see the wall, you know, you see what they are wearing.
Small places is a representation of people's life.
Everyday life, I think.
In the course of my journey,
I've discovered different types of Japanese home.
Traditional and modern, minimalist and maximalist.
But in a remote and mountainous part of Nagano,
one architect is building houses like no-one else.
His name is Terunobu Fujimori.
Fujimori isn't a conventional architect.
In fact, he only started designing buildings in his 40s,
and he runs his practice, if we can call it a practice, like few others.
For years, many of his projects were completed not by professionals,
but by a gaggle of friends, including a novelist,
a sake brewer, a publisher, and a priest.
Now, it might sound like the start of a bad joke,
but the results, when they came, were spectacular.
On a small patch of land behind his house
is one of his most bizarre creations.
This is the flying mud boathouse.
Oh!
One of Fujimori's fantastical teahouses.
Wow!
So cosy in here! Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Oh.
This is great. Good.
Have a cup of tea. Yeah.
This bowl is my favourite.
This is your favourite? Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Please. I get the...
I get your favourite? Yeah, yeah. Oh, thank you very much!
Delicious. Delicious.
Very strong. Yeah, too strong!
Fujimori's style may be eccentric,
but it's grounded in some of Japan's oldest beliefs.
Growing up in the countryside,
Fujimori spent his childhood tending the trees in the nearby forest,
but the trees provided more than timber.
Childhood baseball.
The ball and the bat.
One, two, three.
Oh, no!
When Fujimori grew up, he didn't become an architect,
but an eminent architectural historian.
He might never have built a thing, but in 1989,
he was asked by the people of his village to design a museum,
dedicated to an ancient Shinto shrine.
Inspired by the region's natural surroundings,
Fujimori wanted to channel Japan's prehistoric past.
His first building left most people baffled.
But there were some sympathisers.
Young architects of his generation, like Toyo Ito and Tadao Ando.
Commissions weren't forthcoming,
so Fujimori designed a spectacular house for himself.
Dandelion House was the first in a series of buildings
sprouting all manner of plant life.
Leeks.
Grass.
Even trees.
With these buildings,
Fujimori hoped to bring nature back into Japanese homes.
But Fujimori has created a high-rise of his own...
..though it looks like it was dreamed up by Lewis Carroll
or Studio Ghibli.
This is the Too High Teahouse.
Only 2.2 metres wide, this is a house on a truly human scale.
The gilded lantern in the ceiling
turns the whole place golden at sunset.
And the window overlooks his beloved hometown
and his first work of architecture.
Though this building belongs to a great Japanese tradition,
it taps into something far more universal and far more human.
And I love how personal this building is.
I love the fact that it was tailored to the size of Fujimori's own body.
I love the fact that he built it with his friends.
And I love the fact that,
as you look out over the various views around it,
you can see the mountains that he loved so much.
You can see his family home,
the plot of land on which he was born.
Though this building is small,
it encapsulates so much of Fujimori's life.
You know, climbing up here and crawling inside
was like a return to childhood.
It was like a regression to the womb.
And I think Fujimori is reminding us that,
for all of our talk of houses and apartments and palaces,
for all of our talk of modernism and minimalism,
and for all those aspirations we have about additional bedrooms
and ensuite bathrooms, that ultimately, and originally,
a home is a place of shelter.
It's about making a safe haven to call one's own.
This series has explored Japan's rich and complex culture.
A culture that has been shaped by the outside world,
but is unlike any other.
In the process,
I've seen exceptional works of art, from its old masterpieces...
..to its modern installations.
Its tranquil gardens, to its exuberant art forms.
But in the course of my travels,
I've found art in more than just artworks.
I've found beauty in landscapes...
..the seasons...
..in people's homes,
and above all, in their lives.
One of the things I've noticed here over and over again is
the artfulness of people.
There's a precision and elegance in so much of what they do.
Japan, of course, is a complex and challenging place,
and not all of it is beautiful,
but it does seem to me to be a culture that has, for centuries,
cared profoundly about detail, about getting the little things right,
and that is why, even in the most ordinary places,
beauty can usually be found.