Checking In

CHECKING IN

AUGUST 2017

In July, following a recent opportunity to begin designing a concept store for fashion brand HiPanda, two of the NMLA team were lucky enough to travel to Tokyo for a site visit.

After leaving the airport, we begin driving through the narrow Tokyo streets as the dizzying cityscape towers upwards. Some things seem similar, but always more…vertical. Stepping out of the car the humid air quickly envelops, reminding us we are certainly not in Camden anymore. Pure overstimulation.

Stepping into Hotel Okura’s lobby the chaos of the megalopolis washes off and is replaced with Zen. Passing the immaculately stacked wall of umbrellas, the ‘bell captain’ gracefully bows with a slight smile seeing how large my eyes have become. The dimly lit mirage of greens and browns is so consistently assembled it seems to hum. While the giant world map hanging on the wall is supposed to remind us of the new time zone, it instead seems to catapult us back 5 decades, straight into a scene from Madmen. The hotel’s 60s style interior has remained completely untouched. And it’s marvellous. Even the impeccable uniforms of the staff match the muffled beige palette. While at each turn there are plethora patterns and textures, it still feels incredibly understated.

Designed by Yoshiro Taniguchi and Hideo Kosaka in 1962, the modern design clearly references more traditional Japanese forms and palettes. Unfortunately, the original Northern Wing of the hotel (which was arguably the most authentic and impressive of the two) was demolished in 2015 to make way for a much larger tower ahead of the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. Despite widespread outcry to try and save the adored modernist relic, the Northern Wing fell to the wrecking ball .

Yet so many aspects of the Southern Wing still hold endless charms and we were so lucky to experience them. Warm timber and brass detailing forms the backdrop to lighter elements like shoji screens and ornate wall hangings. The wide low spaces are punctuated by dangling hexagonal pendants and potplants. When standing in the space you can instantly see why writers have been inspired to set their scenes within these walls. James Bond spent a night or two here, while local writers seem equally enamoured, and Haruki Murakami sends Aomame here in his unnerving and fantastical 1Q84.

While Tokyo charges ahead into the future almost everywhere you look, it was so special to witness this elegant design, perfectly frozen in time.

CRAFTLINES

AUGUST 2015

My grandfather has worn many hats; soldier, civil servant, father of seven, husband, and winner of a county final in hurling (the achievement of which he is potentially most proud). He is fluent in Irish and recalls event and dates from 50 years ago with a staggering accuracy. Yet the residing image of him from my childhood is as a craftsman – in the garage next to his house in Dublin, whittling and sanding a piece of ash to form a hurley, sizing it precisely for the user, wrapping the handle to create the perfect hold. I remember sitting, playing surreptitiously with a clamp, watching this in awe: the creation of the perfect instrument from a piece of timber; a skill honed through practice and an unfailing attention to detail. I marvelled at the assurance of it all, the promise in his hands.

It would be satisfyingly simple to attribute my choice of career to these moments – to claim there was an epiphany in watching him, a sudden realisation that I wanted to be an architect, to create. In reality, however, the path was not so linear; instead the conviction that I wanted to become an architect embedded itself in my consciousness slowly, over time. The memory of him working in his garage was one I didn’t return to often, and like any story we fail to repeatedly tell ourselves, it languished, dormant, in the recesses of my mind.

I recently went to site at Jesus College, Cambridge, where we are working on a project that is part new build, part refurbishment. An aspect of the refurbishment involves the adaptation of eight bookcases in the magnificent former library into wall panelling. The existing bookcases are a dark stained timber, designed by Maurice Webb in the 1920s and wonderfully crafted by a masterful hand. Reworking these without compromising their beauty would be a challenge for any craftsman.

On seeing the work the joiner had done, I realised there was no cause for worry – it had been executed with confident, competent hands. In that moment, the memory of my grandfather in his garage came back to me in glorious Technicolor; and I felt a familiar thrill at the embodied potential of the right material in the hands of a craftsman, with promise in his hands.