剛過去的九月有幸受邀參加首屆Openhouse Hong Kong活動，該建築節理念在於開放城市中平日不對外開放，或較難接觸的城市空間，從設計、美學與歷史的視角，探尋香港城市空間的可能性。透過兩星期的活動，我介紹了自己如何以一人之力、慢慢地改造自宅及工作室，利用270至400年前的古材與地震後倒塌的寺廟建材改造古道具店裡的空間。在香港缺乏建造日本古民宅經驗的工匠之下，唯有以自己曾經參與修復日本的古民宅和寺廟的經歷和當中學習到的不同技巧來建造想要的空間，也因此變得難以平衡設計師與工匠的身份。
計劃空間時，想起曾與栗又崇信（Takanobu Kurimata）聊天時提及日本獨特的空間文化「間」（ma），在探訪古民宅時常出現「土間」、「欄間」、「床之間」等概念以及平面圖日文「間取り」。
「間」是衡量建築空間的單位，自中世鎌倉幕府（十二世紀）至室町幕府時期（十六世紀）大多建築結構先建造素木柱稱為「柱立」；而古人認為柱與柱之間象徵人與人相處的關係，成為人流動的空間與時間的距離。這距離稱為「柱間」，四柱圍成四方的空間為「一間」，基礎以一至九間來稱呼，現代以「坪」和「尺」代替。「間」在不同時期及地區的長度也各有不同，古代十尺為一間，中世七尺為一間，近世京間為六尺五寸（關西圏以西），田舎間為六尺（關東、東北與北海道地區）。
至於床之間則是「間」中具有較深象徵意義的，據說古代日本建築並沒有專為裝飾所設的特殊空間，但按照中世平民文獻記載，床之間源自「臥床」（ねどこ）。隨著中世的榻榻米普及，裝飾性空間逐漸成為建築的一部分，上段座面演變為榻榻米的平台。早期榻榻米平台由三個方向用屏風或几帳隔開，跟臥床的由來相似。
隨功能需求增加而加入了押板、違棚及書院造等逐漸演變為日常居座的書院造座敷。另一方面，茶室中的床之間則可視為榻榻米上與裝飾品陳列空間的縮小版，上層象徵著是貴族坐的地方。
「押し板」指在榻榻米上端約七到八寸的地方放置一塊間口超過兩間、厚度超過三寸、寬度約兩尺的板；在當今古道具中也可見此尺寸的敷板（しきいた），背後壁床跟後來床之間亦懸掛著掛軸。相反押し板與後來的床之間間口和深度上有相當的差異，當研究要使用那類材料與構造時，不少文獻記錄「押し板」與敷板（しきいた）的使用與位置，發展為床板的可能性相當大。
後來參考了平內政信撰寫的木割書《匠明》，書中記載押し板的代表性遺構是京都二條城二之丸御殿的遺跡，這種構造在江戶寛政時期已是今天所稱的床之間。因此找了來自京都地區270至400年前的古材來建造店內的床之間，這也算是一種對歷史的致敬。
「床之間」的構造主要以床柱、床框、落掛、床天井及床壁組成；「床柱」是茶室床之間中最為顯眼的，但若過於搶眼，則會破壞整體視覺平衡。近代的日本建築師喜歡使用帶有樹皮的赤松樹和拋光表面的雪松木作木柱；檜錆丸、山櫻丸及栗木丸等木柱也是很常見的。大正時期，杉木柱逐漸普及，亦有以民居或寺廟的古材所製成的柱子。床柱通常設置於床之間一側，而店內的雙側立柱版本稱為二本柱（ふたはしら）。
「落掛」是床之間上部懸掛的橫木，正面多顯示柾目，底端則是杢目。有時會保留部分樹木皮面帶出樸素古雅的韻味。
「床壁」是床之間後方的牆面也被稱為大平壁，即使床之間無深度的牆亦同稱。與茶室其他部分的牆面相同，分為張付壁牆（牆壁上覆蓋著紙，常懸掛山水畫或花藝作品）與土壁。
以柱為結構形成空間，誕生出床之間，而床之間與旁邊的「床脇」及違棚如雲形層板設計發展出明治至大正時期的文机、飾り棚及茶箪笥等家具細節如筆返及引戶比例等等⋯⋯用另一角度去理解「間」的美學意識，可以在古民家留意到從地板量上去是六尺一間的位置會出現日式楣窗「欄間」，以細膩的鏤空工藝雕刻木板，形成穿透式的薄板，安裝於天花與橫楣之間，既分割空間並為江戶至明治時期的簡約房間增添了代表該地方的細節。
離世的家父曾說，學習古美術及歷史需要花數十的年時間，就像竹樹一樣，初期生長緩慢，直至可吸收到足夠的時養分才能破土而出。這些說話一直影響著我，更特意為工作室雕刻了搖擺中的竹樹，讓我能記念這個空間與學習的成長過程，印證著時間與空間的分割。
This past September, I was fortunate to participate in the inaugural Open House Hong Kong, an architectural festival that aims to unveil city spaces that are typically inaccessible, inviting exploration of Hong Kong’s urban landscape through the lenses of design, aesthetics, and history.
During the two-week event, I shared my journey of transforming my home and studio and how I utilized ancient materials, some dating back 270 to 400 years, along with materials salvaged from a temple that collapsed in an earthquake, to craft a unique space within an antique shop. In Hong Kong, where craftsmen often lack experience in building traditional Japanese homes, I leaned on my background in restoring old Japanese houses and temples, blending various techniques to achieve my vision. This dual role as both designer and craftsman has posed its own challenges.
In planning the space, I recalled a conversation with Takanobu Kurimata about Japan’s distinctive spatial culture known as ma (間). This concept frequently appears in traditional homes, manifesting in terms like doma (土間; earthen floor area ), ranma (欄間; transom), and toko-noma (床之間; alcove), as well as in the Japanese term for floor plans, madori (間取り).
Ma serves as a unit for measuring architectural space. From the Kamakura period (12th century) to the Muromachi period (16th century), structures typically began with wooden pillars known as hashira (柱立). In ancient thought, the space between these pillars symbolized human relationships, acting as a bridge for movement and the passage of time. This distance is referred to as hashirama (柱間) with four pillars forming a square space called ichima (一間). Traditionally, spaces were categorized into one to nine ma, with modern measurements using tsubo (坪; approximately equal to 3.3 square meters) and shaku (尺; approximately equal to 30.3 centimeters). The dimensions of ma varied across eras and regions: in ancient times, it measured ten shaku; during the medieval period, seven shaku; while the Kyoto standard in recent times is six shaku five sun (寸; approximately equal to 3.03 centimeters) (in the Kansai region) and six shaku in rural areas (Kanto, Tohoku, and Hokkaido).
The concept of toko-noma carries deeper symbolic significance. Historically, Japanese architecture did not include specialized decorative spaces. However, medieval records indicate that toko-noma originated from the term nedoko (臥床; sleeping space). With the rise of tatami (畳) mats, these decorative areas gradually became integrated into architecture. The elevated seating area evolved into a tatami platform, often separated by screens or curtains, echoing the origins of nedoko.
As functional needs evolved, elements such as oshi-ita (押し板; a flat board), chigai-dana (違い棚; a decorative shelf), and shoin-zukuri (書院造; a style of traditional Japanese architectur ) gradually transformed into the everyday shoin-zukuri zashiki (書院造座敷). In contrast, the toko-noma within a tea room serves as a miniature version of a tatami area adorned with decorative items, with its upper level symbolizing a space for nobility.
The term oshi-ita refers to a board placed about seven to eight sun from the top of the tatami. It typically measures over two ma in width, more than three sun in thickness, and roughly two shaku wide. Today, similar dimensions can still be found in antique Shiki-ita (敷板; a board placed on the floor). Behind the oshi-ita, it’s the kabe-doko (壁床) that often feature hanging scrolls. Notably, the dimensions and depth of oshi-ita differ significantly from later toko-noma. Research into historical materials and structures indicates that many records document the use and placement of both oshi-ita and Shiki-ita, suggesting their evolution into the modern “bed board.”
I later referenced the traditional architectural design manual Shoumei (匠明) by Hiranuma Masanobu, which highlights the most representative structure of oshi-ita found at the remains of the Ninomaru Palace in Kyoto. By the Edo period, this structure had evolved into what we now recognize as toko-noma. To create the tokonoma in my own shop, I sourced ancient materials from Kyoto, dating back 270 to 400 years, as a tribute to history.
The structure of toko-noma primarily comprises toko-bashira (床柱; central support pillar), toko-gamachi (床框; a framework or structure), ochiga-kari (落掛; decorative element ), toko-tenjou (床天井, ceiling), and kabe-doko. The toko-bashira is the most prominent feature of toko-noma in the chashitsu (茶室; tea room); yet, if they become too conspicuous, they can disrupt the visual balance. Modern Japanese architects often prefer red pine with bark and polished cedar for toko-bashira. Other common choices include hinoki (Japanese cypress), cherry wood, and chestnut. By the Taisho era, cedar pillars gained popularity, often crafted from reclaimed wood from houses or temples. Typically, toko-bashira are positioned on one side of the toko-noma, while the dual-sided version in my shop is known as nihonba-shira (二本柱).
Ochiga-kari is a horizontal wood beam suspended above the toko-noma, often displaying fine grain on the front and a more rustic texture on the underside. Some retain portions of the tree’s bark, adding a touch of simplicity and elegance.
Kabe-doko is located at the back of the toko-noma. Even if the toko-noma is shallow, it retains this designation. Similar to other walls in the chashitsu, Kabe-doko is classified into two types: haritsuke-kabe (張付壁), which are paper-covered walls often displaying landscape paintings or floral arrangements, and tsuchi-kabe (土壁), which are made of earth.
By using pillars to define space, the toko-noma developed alongside adjacent elements like toko-waki (床脇; space adjacent to a alcove) and chigai-dana. These features inspired various furniture and tools, including bun-jiki (文机; writing desk), kazari-dana (飾棚; decorative shelf), cha-tensu (茶箪笥; tea chest), fude-kae (筆返; brush holder), and hiki-do hiritsu (引戶比例; measurements used in the design of sliding doors) during the Meiji to Taisho periods. Looking at the aesthetics of ma from a different perspective reveals that in traditional homes, ranma are often found at a height of six shaku one ma. These transom windows are known for their intricate openwork carvings. Positioned between the ceiling and the lintel, they not only divide the space but also add unique details that reflect the region’s heritage, enhancing the simplicity of rooms from the Edo to Meiji periods.
My late father once remarked that learning about ancient art and history requires decades of dedication, much like bamboo, which grows slowly at first, absorbing nutrients until it finally breaks through the soil. His words have profoundly influenced me, leading me to carve a sculpture of a swinging bamboo for my studio as a reminder of this space and the growth of my learning journey, embodying the relationship between time and space.
