Japanese architect Tomoaki Uno has created a coastal home and workplace that explores the timeless harmony between man and nature
Picture a simple wooden box with a clean-lined overhanging roof and a facade of glass, hovering above a ‘forest’ of scattered cedar wood columns. Terabe Guest House, an escapist retreat on a forested sweep of coastline in Nishio, Aichi Prefecture, central Japan, can perhaps be described as a floating temple by the sea.
It was brought to life by Tomoaki Uno, a respected Japanese architect who has spent decades designing unique homes across the region, often exploring a timeless harmony between man and nature, the contemporary and the traditional, the crafted and the machine-made.
Despite its name, the property is not a hotel but rather both home and business premises for the owner, Mikako Yoshida, who runs a company making rice cookers suitable for genmai brown rice, and whose partner’s parents once owned a beach house on the same site. The words ‘guest house’ reflect how, several days each month, she invites visitors to sit in the heart of the house, a central café-like space with wooden tables and sea views, and try her delicious brown rice cooking.
At first sight, the physical form of the floating structure immediately evokes a hint of the traditional; the temple-like lines and angles of its overhanging corrugated galvalume steel roof sit cleanly on top of a rectangular wooden box. The most defining element, however, is its elevation. Its raised living area enables Yoshida to enjoy serenely expansive vistas of sea and sky without the busy summertime traffic and holidaymakers that would block ground-level views.
It is a concept rooted in traditional vernacular, as reflected in old Japanese storehouses and granaries. Uno cites the example of Shosoin Treasure House, an 8th-century wooden structure at Todai-ji Temple in Nara, which is similarly raised off the ground.
‘I have a lot of respect for traditional Japanese architecture,’ explains Uno, who opened his studio in Nagoya city, around 90 minutes by car from the site, in 1990. ‘This a contemporary building, but there is a timelessness in the traditional and I wanted to bring that into the design.’
At Terabe Guest House, pilotis are a key protagonist. There are 32 columns, sturdy and solid as tree trunks, with 33cm diameters, scattered like a forest, each one rising 2m high. These connect a granite gravel-covered floor with a waffle-style wood structure above so people can comfortably walk among them. Every pillar has been painstakingly carved to evoke a barely visible yet subtly organic sense of entasis, the quietly convex curves seen in ancient columns in Greek and Japanese temples alike. Initially, the shaving was meticulously carried out by hand, using a traditional tool known as a yarigana, before time constraints resulted in completing the process by machine.
‘I wanted to raise everything up but keep it very simple,’ explains Uno, whose earlier acclaimed residences in Nagoya range from the poetic drama of Ryusenji House – with two lightwells in place of windows – to the layered interior journey of Sako House. ‘At the start, the columns were very straight, but we had to change that. It had to be subtle, not obvious. We started hand-shaving because it is more natural. And we wanted every single pillar to look a bit different.’
The word boko boko comes up in conversation – a phrase that refers to an uneven surface. ‘I consider making things by hand very important,’ he adds. ‘But tradition survives only through innovation. Hand-cutting is very expensive so we have to innovate. Using machines to create this traditional way of cutting can help keep this technique alive.’
A key technical challenge was fixing the pilotis securely in place in the ground. The carpenters on site eventually solved the problem by sealing six steel threaded rods known as home connectors at the base of each pillar using epoxy, before inserting them into the ground and fixing them in place with poured concrete. The solution, which came to light through the combined expertise and intuition of the carpenters and the studio, offers a clue into Uno’s working practices. He was raised among craftsmen as the son of a plasterer, and has previously described the construction site as a living organism, which often grows ‘beyond my imagination’. Rarely using large-scale models or CGIs, he prefers to keep the creative process open rather than fixed to a blueprint, enabling him to ‘cook’ his ideas alongside craftsmen on the construction site.
Testimony to this are the handcrafted touches and details that define the end result: from the serene flow of small light granite stones connecting the main structure to a smaller one-level building at the rear, with offices, warehouse storage and kitchen; to the cabling for the plumbing and electrics hidden discreetly in vertical pipes wrapped in aged copper tape.
In the heart of the piloti forest, a staircase descends from the upper levels. Sculptural in its solidity, it is crafted from rows of clean-cut tree trunks with the circular wood grain visible on each step. Uno points out that the simple geometric structural lines were created using a technique that hints at a method once used for making log-cut ladders during Japan’s Jomon era (14,000-300BC). While the space among the ‘trees’ was initially designed for car parking, the owner admits she never parks there – not just because it is a narrow space but to avoid disrupting its visual beauty.
As the door opens on the upper level and the threshold is crossed, visitors are greeted by the warm scent of cedarwood and the soft cream ceramic edges of a contemporary cube-like Cobble stool by Faye Toogood. After shoes are slipped off, a door on the right opens onto an office space – the simplicity of its minimal wooden interior harmonising easily with sea views through a wall of glass.
The main space lies to the left in the centre of the building. Here, a large light-filled room, again lined seamlessly with windows, has several wooden tables positioned to enjoy the view of Mikawa Bay, while a counter space at the rear flows into a discreet kitchen area. Further along is a bathroom-with-a-view, complete with a bespoke bath created by the studio (as is often the case for their residences), alongside a ceramic sink and Japanese hinoki cypress cupboards crafted by carpenter Hideyuki Takemura.
The final space is the owner’s bedroom, complete with a continuation of the windows, wood-wrapped interiors and an inbuilt floating wood wall, hiding a walk-in wardrobe and storage space. A small balcony extrudes from the side wall, offering the owner a place to sit, and read, directly facing what she describes as one of her favourite trees. Brass hardware is attached to the external wall to hold a rail for hanging laundry.
Throughout the wood-scented space, the views are centre stage. To create a sense of seamlessness from floor to ceiling, the windows are not openable. To counter this, 20 small air vents create natural ventilation whle seven small skylights boost both ventilation and natural light.
Other touches include a circulatory airflow system created by aircon units hidden behind wooden lattices, hinting at traditional Japanese aesthetics, which warm interiors and create underfloor heating.
Wooden interiors are sharpened by contemporary touches, such as the oxidised copper surfaces of ceiling lights and a thin support rod cutting horizontally across the main room as well as the minimalist angular lines of aged brass door handles. Attention to detail is also balanced with budgetary limitations – as reflected in the textured patina of the window frames and the post box on the adjacent building, covered in hand-wrapped oxidised copper tape. ‘Mass-produced materials are not right for this kind of building,’ says Uno. ‘I tried to adjust things and make as much as possible by hand to fit with the architecture.’
The forest of pilotis is no doubt a signature feature of the house. Yet there are many other quieter ingredients that make the structure as timeless as it is soothing to the senses – from the traditional inspirations that underpin its modern form to the imprint of nature in the materials and the atmosphere of craftsmanship in its details. The end result is a space with a depth of beauty to its simplicity, which is appreciated by the owner every day.
‘I gave him complete freedom beause I trusted him,’ explains Yoshida, while bringing out tea and melt-in-the-mouth brown rice balls. ‘I wanted a space which is connected to nature, that feels natural, through the materials. A harmony between human, nature and the building itself.’
She adds: ‘I love watching the sunrise from here. And just sitting and listening to the rain. Living in a place this beautiful has a special power. This beauty enriches my daily life.’
Underpinning Terabe Guest House is a sense of quiet anonymity. Just like a traditional Japanese mingei craftsman, Uno explains he is always careful not to impose his personality on his creations. Instead, he says, it’s all about longevity. Unlike his earlier architectural journey where he spoke of searching for what had never been seen before, his vision is now inspired by the idea of creating a lasting building with a timelessness that is neither past nor present, beyond the limitations of the handcrafted or man-made.
‘I want people to completely feel the atmosphere,’ he says. ‘That’s the most important thing. It’s about keeping a sense of harmony. There is no recipe for this building. It just exists.’