Turning Kyoto Into Kindling

A residential lot in the middle of Kyoto stands shrouded in blue vinyl sheets, the ubiquitous color of construction in Japan. A revving diesel engine throbs from within, followed by a series of dull thuds and the sickening peal of splitting wood. The din continues for half an hour, then falls silent. A large flap of blue vinyl pulls back, allowing a small dump truck brimming with neatly stacked fragments of lumber to edge onto the street. Inside the cloaked construction site sits a large-tracked demolition vehicle. Its worn metal claw rests atop a haphazard mound of clay, roof tiles, and splintered beams. Behind the vehicle looms a partial house, its interior rooms halved as in an architect's cross-section. The front half just departed in the truck for the dump. The rest will follow shortly.

This pitiful sight is, sadly, common in Kyoto as the city's architectural heritage suffers the preservation equivalent of genocide. A survey conducted by Kyoto University shows that 50,000 wooden structures were torn down between 1978 and 1988 alone - an average of 13 demolitions a day, every day, for 10 full years. While more recent data is unavailable, that figure has by now most likely doubled to 100,000. It is all but impossible to find a stretch of street with its original facades intact.

Most victims were the elegant one- or two-story townhouses called machiya which, until the 1950s, blanketed Kyoto end to end, making it one of the finest examples in the world of a city built of wood. Machiya are very much an architecture of the townsfolk, and the story of the machiya is their story. Twelve hundred years ago, when Kyoto first arose as the imperial capital of Heian, the nobles lived in grand estates known to us from ancient scroll paintings. The townsfolk lived in hovels. By the early middle ages, however, the aristocracy gave way to the military samurai class, and shortly thereafter the townsfolk - the craftsmen who manufactured all manner of goods, and the merchants who sold them - began to make their own mark on the city. With their newfound wealth and social status, they developed a particular kind of architecture that suited their lifestyle, a form of architecture that developed into the machiya we know today.

Machiya typically contain both homes and workspaces arranged along a narrow lot. Dimensions vary according to the family's status; a typical site measures 33 feet along the street and 100 feet in depth. In the classic form, a one-and-a-half-story building (omote-ya) used exclusively for business - usually a craft studio or sales shop - faces the street. It is typically followed in succession by a small garden, the owner's two-story residence (omoya), a second garden, and finally a thick-walled, fireproof storehouse positioned at the rear of the site. As with all traditional Japanese architecture, dimensions are based on the length of a tatami mat, which measures about six feet long. By the 1800s, the craftsmen who built the machiya had honed their tools and techniques to elegant refinement; their creations were veritable poems in wood and clay. They employed as many as 20 different kinds of wood, each with its own particular use. The post-and-beam structures fit together with exquisite joinery caulked by interlaced bamboo, straw, and plastered clay. The selection of materials, the efficiency of space, and the precise fabrication surpassed all forms of machiya that had come before.

A visitor to Kyoto today, however, will find only fragmented remains of these precious buildings. Many stand isolated in the shadows of tall apartment buildings; others lie hidden behind false facades. In some cases, a block of machiya, or part of a block, remains intact, but unaltered traditional neighborhoods are now rare. Their tragic plight begs the question: Why does a city with a 1,200-year history and a reputation as a cultural capital rush to abandon its cultural heritage - The most obvious answer is economic; Kyoto land prices are astronomical. Japan is slightly smaller than California, and while 70 percent of the land is too mountainous to build on, its population is fully half that of the United States. As a result, its cities are densely populated.

As Japan redeveloped after World War II, competition for urban land sent real-estate prices skyrocketing. By the mid-1980s, at the height of Japan's bubble economy, land in central Kyoto sold for more than $1,500 per square foot. Even the smallest plots fetched millions of dollars. Naturally, many residents gave in to temptation by selling their land or developing it themselves. Of course, the ancient wooden structures didn't figure into the redevelopment plans.

Residents who opted to stay on in their old homes at some point faced Japan's insurmountable inheritance tax: When the head of the family died (usually the eldest male family member), his descendents had to pay a tax on his estate, which was largely based on the value of the land. With inheritance tax rates as high as 70 percent, ordinary families suddenly owed the government millions of dollars in taxes. In most cases, the only option was to sell or develop the land.

The disappearance of the machiya is also a cultural phenomenon. After the devastating losses suffered during World War II, Japan reconstructed itself on a model of modernity and efficiency. The new attitude was to discard the old and adopt the new: Western ways were perceived as better, stronger, more fashionable - the wave of the future. Once-cherished cultural objects were discarded as artifacts of a flawed past. Naturally, the machiya fell by the wayside, along with their furnishings. An undetermined wealth of fine traditional furniture was hauled away in garbage trucks and burned.

When a machiya is torn down, a way of life goes with it. Dozen of trades rely on their construction and maintenance, including carpenters, plasterers, roof tilers, gardeners, copper workers, tatami makers, and window paperers. The loss trickles down to the host of craftsmen and material suppliers who, in turn, support those trades.

Also eradicated is the gracious architectural expression of traditional Kyoto life. The delicate wooden grillwork facing the street expresses the customary division of public and private. The lattice is cut slightly thinner than in other cities, suggesting Kyoto's taste for refinement. An extra-large entrance hall, or genkan, provides a place for the outside world and inner life to meet (visitors rarely advance beyond this space). A narrow veranda, or engawa, faces the tiny inner gardens. The workplace and home coexist while maintaining a comfortable remove from one another. Not surprisingly, the sterile apartments that replace the machiya never incorporate these features.

The endangered machiya, however, could yet be saved. Thanks in part to Japan's economic slump, Kyoto is beginning to reexamine its values. Faced with wholesale destruction of wooden neighborhoods, local preservation groups have sprung up throughout the city. Professional organizations, such as the Kyoto Townhouse Revitalization Society and Kyoto Townhouse Craftsmen's Group, have begun to mobilize. More hopeful still, the inheritance tax is up for revision. The change was not initiated expressly to save townhouses, but it could help their cause. Meanwhile, a group of foreign residents, having witnessed preservation's benefits in their homelands, joined with Japanese friends to form the International Society to Save Kyoto(web.kyoto_inet.or.jp/org/bigkarma/issk/). A recent survey found more thatn 60,000 intact machiya in Kyoto's four central wards, giving hope to a machiya renaissance.

Perhaps most encouragingly, it has become trendy to open shops, restaurants, and galleries in renovated townhouses. A former sake shop has found a new life, for example, as Kyoto 's most attractive stone-oven pizzeria. Sipping grappa in the warm light that reflects off its plastered clay walls, one senses that there is more to machiya than meets the eye. Their importance as architectural and cultural artifacts extends beyond the age of their inception, to the active life of the city today, and beyond, to tomorrow.