Restoring Hidden Beauty Through the Renovation of Old Houses

Japan possesses a continuous tradition of wooden architecture dating back to around the 6th century. The five-story pagoda at Hōryū-ji, one of the oldest wooden structures in the world, was first built in 607, rebuilt around 711 after a fire in 670, and has stood for more than thirteen centuries. Its very existence quietly testifies to the enduring strength of Japan’s wooden craft.

At Ise Grand Shrine, the Shikinen Sengū— the ritual rebuilding of the shrine on an adjacent site—has been carried out every twenty years since 690, reaching its 62nd cycle in 2013.

To rebuild a structure with the same dimensions, materials, and techniques for over a thousand years is something unparalleled anywhere in the world.

In Kyoto, the essence of this wooden tradition has taken the form of machiya townhouses,

shaping alleyways, forming streetscapes,and becoming the very face of the city.

Yet these traditional buildings are surprisingly rarely treated as cultural assets worth protecting. Even in Kyoto—an ancient capital celebrated globally— around 800 machiya are demolished every year. Many are torn down for inheritance reasons or replaced with parking lots and prefab apartment buildings, simply because allowing them to remain as machiya is seen as “unprofitable.”

Paris offers a striking contrast.

After the construction of the Montparnasse Tower, strong citizen opposition effectively banned high-rise buildings in the historic center. Even the glass pyramid at the Louvre faced fierce debate until the day it opened.

And just recently, I visited Athens for the first time. The Acropolis rising in majestic silence above the city, and the museum that conveys its long history— everywhere I went, people spoke of them with unmistakable pride. The doctor I met, the restaurant waiter, even the museum guard all told me:

“That place is our history, and our consciousness has been connected to it for generations.”

Their words carried a sense of continuity—of beauty as something shared and inherited.

How much pride can people in Kyoto feel toward their own city today? It is not that they lack pride. Rather, outside of Hanamikoji, many seem to feel that the streetscape has nothing to do with them.

Many machiya have had their wooden facades painted over, replaced with aluminum door & window frames, and fitted with plastic gutters. Under the banner of insulation, convenience, and economic efficiency, they have been turned into buildings “improved for the time being,”

losing the very qualities that once defined them.

Through the renovations of Maruyo Hotel, The Lodge MIWA, and the B's residence in Kyoto, I have gone through the same process again and again.

When plasterboard is removed, old beams appear; the earthen walls begin to breathe;

and the breeze quietly reveals where it was originally meant to enter. In those moments I always find myself thinking:

“The beauty of this building was here at the beginning.”

As the work continues, a floor of carefully chosen straight-grained tsuga wood (Japanese Hemlock) emerges, evidence of craftsmen selecting materials they believed would endure far into the future. Patterned glass softens the incoming light; the rounded edges of wooden fittings cast delicate shadows; and sometimes, from the back of an old kitchen, a copper faucet appears, darkened by time into a tone no new material could ever replicate.

Discovering each of these things feels like a kind of treasure hunt.

Rather than adding something new, uncovering hidden value is perhaps the most authentic act of creation. Renovation is not about producing new beauty. It is about making a beauty that has become invisible visible again. Beauty does not need to be created. It simply needs to be noticed.

Before an old building is torn down—just once— if we could pause and quietly look into the beauty that place once held, something essential might begin to change.