This summer, Alex Whittaker met with the pioneering Japanese non-profit, the Kominka Collective. Founded by Andrea Carlson and Kunito Niwa, the Collective reimagines traditional kominka, bringing ancient craftsmanship into conversation with contemporary architecture, sustainability and global exchange.

The Kominka Collective is built around a deceptively simple idea: that old buildings may have far more to teach us than we give them credit for. Founded out of a deep fascination with Japan’s traditional wooden architecture, the Collective preserves, relocates and gives new life to kominka - houses of the people, crafted from local materials and shaped by generations of environmental knowledge. But the project is about more than saving beautiful old buildings. It is about asking what happens when we stop treating the past as something inert, simply to be preserved, and approach it it as a living, applicable resource for the future.

In the following conversation, Andrea Carlson and Kunito Niwa unpack the thinking behind the project - and the more you listen, the more radical it becomes. A centuries-old timber frame is not simply a structure; it is a record of decisions, adaptations and accumulated intelligence. Its joints reveal how it was assembled — and how it can be dismantled. Its repairs show what previous generations considered worth saving. Its timber carries the memory of forests, craftspeople and place. Even the discoveries made when a building is taken apart — a carpenter’s note, an ingenious repair hidden for generations — become part of its story.

What is especially compelling is how the Collective turns preservation into an active, transcultural exchange. When a kominka moves from Japan to another country, it does not simply carry Japanese heritage with it. It enters a new climate, a new community and a new architectural conversation. Japanese carpenters, architects, builders and craftspeople meet their counterparts elsewhere, exchanging knowledge through the shared act of making. The buildings become ambassadors — not static artefacts, but places where ideas and skills can travel in both directions.

And beneath it all is a question that feels increasingly urgent: what if our obsession with demolition, replacement and newness has got progress backwards? A 200-year-old building asks us to pause before declaring something obsolete. Repair, adaptation, reuse and stewardship begin to look less like nostalgic gestures and more like radical propositions for a climate-challenged future.

Perhaps the most exciting possibility is that the future does not require us to abandon the past — only to understand it differently.

(AW) Let's begin with the word itself. What is a kominka?

For someone in Britain who has never encountered the term, what distinguishes a kominka from simply an old Japanese house — and what do you think gets lost when we translate the word as “traditional farmhouse”?

(AC/KN) Kominka literally means an old minka, or house of the people. In everyday use, minka and kominka are often used interchangeably. There is no single architectural formula, and minka were not all farmhouses. What we generally mean is a house built using traditional materials and methods, especially a timber frame with carefully worked joinery.

These houses vary dramatically across Japan in both appearance and construction. A house in a snowy mountain valley has different demands from one in a warmer coastal region. Some have thatched roofs, others tile; timber, earth, paper, bamboo and metal are used in different ways. Builders often used wood available nearby and worked with the character of each piece. A curved timber might become a magnificent beam rather than something to be cut into a standard shape.

“Traditional farmhouse” is sometimes useful shorthand, but it suggests a single rural type. These were homes shaped by particular families, occupations and climates, often within closely connected village communities. Many were also part of satoyama: a landscape in which homes, fields and woodland were closely connected through daily life and work.

(AW) When did an old house become something worth saving for you?

Was there a particular building, encounter or moment when you stopped seeing these structures simply as architecture and started thinking about them as repositories of memory, knowledge and cultural history?

(AC/KN) There was no single moment. We had admired Japanese vernacular architecture for years, but the possibility of losing an old house close to home made the question immediate. Across the road from us is a beautiful old sukiya-style house, exquisitely made and beautifully situated in its garden. Its owner considered demolishing it because no one seemed willing to buy the property with the house still standing. Happily, another owner was found, and it remains where it belongs. While its future was uncertain, though, we began to ask what could be done when a building could not be saved in place.

Another important experience was staying at Horakuan, a Zen retreat in the mountains of Nagano. Its founder, Dorothee Eshin Takatsu, is a German-born Zen priest who restored an old minka and gave it a new life as a place for retreats and gatherings. The house was beautiful, but learning what she had done with it was just as inspiring.

We wanted to understand why so many minka were being lost, and that led us to Toda Komuten, a family building company with generations of experience in traditional construction and preservation. We met Yoshinobu Toda and his family, and their knowledge, imagination, and deep concern for these buildings drew us into the work of preservation.

On an early visit to Niigata with the Todas, we came across a particularly handsome minka, typical of the area, set on a hill between two mountain valleys. It had been vacant for years, and its future was uncertain, yet it retained a strong sense of its place in the landscape. Fortunately, it was eventually relocated within Japan.

As we visited more rural communities and saw how many minka stood empty or faced demolition, the scale of the loss became impossible to ignore.

(AW) Japan is often imagined in the West as a country that perfectly preserves its traditions. But the reality seems rather different.

Why are so many traditional wooden buildings vulnerable to demolition, and what does their disappearance tell us about contemporary Japan — particularly its rural communities?

(AC/KN) The reality is indeed very different. Figures drawn from what I believe might have been the most recent of Japan’s housing surveys show a fall from approximately 1,797,000 kominka in 2008 to 1,566,000 in 2013, a decline of about 13% in five years. The figures do not tell us precisely what happened to every house, but they convey the scale of the loss. Minka are only part of the picture: kura, temples, shrines, and other traditional structures are disappearing too.

Several pressures come together. Many rural communities have lost younger residents, and houses pass to heirs who live elsewhere and may have no practical way to care for them. An empty timber house needs regular attention; once maintenance stops, the cost of bringing it back can become daunting. Owners may struggle to finance renovation, particularly when structural safety and present-day requirements must be addressed. Grants and local support exist in some places, but they are uneven and can be difficult to access.

The value of these buildings is not always recognised. Old houses are often assumed to be dark, cold, and inconvenient, although they can be adapted with skill. Their materials and construction are not always well understood, and opportunities to learn about traditional building practices can be limited, even within architectural education. Celebrated historic places receive attention, but a house, shrine, or temple building outside a famous district may be overlooked. When such a building disappears, a rural community loses part of the place its residents have known, as well as the work of those who built and cared for it.

There is a painful irony here. In 2020, UNESCO recognised Japan’s traditional skills for the conservation and transmission of wooden architecture as intangible cultural heritage. Yet many of the buildings through which those skills can be studied and practised continue to disappear. We also live in a culture that understands mottainai, the regret of letting something valuable go to waste. Many of these structures can be carefully taken apart, repaired, and reconstructed. Preservation needs practical support for owners and craftspeople, as well as a broader understanding of what these buildings are worth.

(AW) The Collective talks about preserving not only buildings but the knowledge contained within them.

What exactly does a traditional house know? What can we learn from its materials, joinery, proportions, repairs and relationship to the landscape that we cannot learn from drawings or photographs?

(AC/KN) A house records decisions made by people who knew a particular place: which trees could be used, how the roof should meet the weather, where light and air were needed, and how rooms might serve work and family life. Its frame shows how the building was put together. Its joints tell us how pieces were connected and how they can be taken apart. Repairs show what wore out, what was valued enough to mend, and how later generations adapted the house. Even the marks left by tools and years of use matter.

Some of the most revealing moments come during disassembly. We have seen carpenters and temple builders become excited when they uncover something they could not have known from looking at a building: a note left by an earlier carpenter, for example, or an ingenious repair hidden for generations. It is a privilege to be there when they make such discoveries.

Drawings and photographs are indispensable, and we document structures as carefully as we can. But they cannot fully convey the weight and character of a beam, the fit of a joint, or the judgment a carpenter makes when an old piece of timber is opened up. That knowledge is also held in the hands and conversations of the people doing the work. This is why we try to record craftspeople, owners, and local memories alongside the buildings themselves.

(AW) There is something wonderfully counterintuitive about dismantling a historic building in order to save it.

When a kominka is carefully taken apart and reconstructed somewhere else, is it still the same building? What, in your view, is actually being preserved — the structure, the material, the craftsmanship, the story, or something less tangible?

(AC/KN) Yes, we think it is still the same building, although it has changed. Traditional timber joinery allows a frame to be dismantled, repaired, and assembled again, and some houses have already lived through substantial changes. Even so, moving one is a serious decision. A building loses part of its original setting, and we should acknowledge that loss.

What survives is its material and the intelligence of its construction, along with as much of its history as we can carry forward. We number and document the components, attend to repairs, and try to understand the building as fully as possible. Some of the old timber is extraordinary in scale and character; wood of that kind could not simply be obtained again today.

The Buddhist understanding that nothing remains unchanged also speaks to us here. Sometimes reconstruction can be very faithful, particularly in a public garden or museum. Sometimes a different climate or purpose calls for thoughtful change. A building’s identity does not depend on every element remaining exactly as it was. What matters is whether its earlier life can still be understood and respected, and whether the knowledge needed to care for it continues into its next life.

(AW) Some of the Collective's work takes Japanese buildings and building traditions overseas.

What happens when a kominka leaves Japan? Does its meaning change when it is reconstructed in America or potentially elsewhere in the West — and can moving a building create a new cultural dialogue rather than simply exporting Japanese heritage?

(AC/KN) Its meaning does change, because it enters another landscape and another community. At first we were more inclined to think that a relocated building ought to be reconstructed as faithfully as possible. We still value that approach where it suits the structure and its new purpose. But we have come to see that respectful adaptation can give a building a convincing life in a different setting. A minka from Japan’s snow country, for example, must be considered in relation to the climate of its new home. In a project in Jamaica, Japanese and local architectural ideas are coming together in the reconstruction.

The structures being relocated to the Japanese Friendship Garden and Museum in San Diego offer another kind of opportunity. People who may never have the chance to visit Japan will be able to spend time with a minka, a temple gate, a bell tower, and a shrine. Our hope is that they will encounter these as buildings with histories and purposes, made by skilled people and cared for by particular communities. Reconstruction can be part of that experience too. We hope to create opportunities for visitors and local craftspeople to observe the work and take part in workshops, learning directly from the Japanese craftspeople and the local team as the structures take shape.

We are also documenting far more than the physical move. Through interviews with craftspeople, former stewards, and others connected to the structures, we are tracing their histories, the communities around them, and the ways they were originally built. We are recording the work of disassembly, repair, relocation, and reconstruction, with the aim of sharing it through a book and documentary. Photographs, film, and these accounts can help visitors understand what each structure’s earlier life was like, while keeping a connection between its place of origin and its new home. We hope there will also be opportunities for people from the two communities to meet.

For us, this is what makes relocation a form of cultural exchange. Japanese craftspeople bring knowledge of the buildings; architects, engineers, builders, and visitors in the receiving country bring their own skills and questions. The structures can continue to teach, both during reconstruction and for many years afterwards. We hope that seeing them cared for and valued overseas will also encourage people in Japan to look again at buildings that are disappearing at home.

(AW) You work closely with Toda Komuten and traditional Japanese carpenters.

What is it like watching a fifth-generation building company approach a centuries-old building? And what can Western architects and craftspeople learn from the way these carpenters think about time, materials and repair?

(AC/KN) Toda Komuten is now in its fifth generation. The earlier generations built houses using methods that the family is working to keep alive today. The present team brings that inheritance, as well as a great deal of inventiveness, to its work. We have watched them examine an old timber without assuming that an irregularity makes it useless. They look for what remains sound, what needs repair, and where a piece might serve again. Reclaimed beams, doors, roof tiles, and fittings often find their way into unexpected and beautiful new settings.

They also work with an awareness of the people who came before them. When a building is taken apart, they study how it was made and repaired, sometimes discovering choices made by carpenters generations ago. Their own work becomes another chapter in that history. Koji Toda often speaks about building work, education, and collaboration belonging together. That is something we hope Western architects and craftspeople can experience firsthand by working alongside Japanese builders. They can share ways of assessing and repairing old material, and each can learn how the other approaches a problem.

(AW) There is a fascinating tension between preservation and adaptation.

At what point does giving an old building a “second life” become too much intervention? Do you have a philosophy about how much a building can change while still retaining its identity?

(AC/KN) We do not have a rule that a building must retain a fixed percentage of its original materials or return to a single moment in its past. We do, of course, try to retain and reuse as much as we can. Houses have always changed as families and needs changed. For us, the question is whether a proposed change grows out of an understanding of the building, and whether people will still be able to recognise how it was made and what gave it its character. Safety, comfort, and the local climate are real needs, and good design can address them without concealing all the old work.

A faithful reconstruction may be right for a public setting where people come to learn about the building’s original form. A private house may call for a different arrangement. We welcome both when the design begins with close study and respects the building’s materials, craftsmanship, and history. It becomes too much intervention when those qualities are treated as incidental and the building is valued only for the effect it creates. A temple gate or a minka deserves more than to serve as an exotic prop.

(AW) You also work on rural revitalisation and have a background in social psychology.

How much of the Collective's work is actually about people rather than buildings? Can saving a house help revive a community, or is that an overly romantic idea?

(AC/KN) The buildings and the people are inseparable. A house carries the work of carpenters and other craftspeople, the choices of its owners, and the routines of a family or village. When we document a threatened structure, we want to hear from people connected to it as well as measure its timbers. Our workshops, cultural gatherings, architectural study tours, and Cultural Heritage Fellow program bring participants into contact with the people and communities connected to these buildings. Through the fellowship, young people interested in Japanese building arts spend time learning directly from traditional craftspeople. We also study how buildings were made and repaired, and the social and cultural settings in which they have lived.

At the same time, it would be romantic to imagine that saving one house will reverse decades of depopulation. A restored minka can provide a home, a workshop, an inn, or a place to gather. Whether it helps a community depends on local relationships, livelihoods, maintenance, and the wishes of the people who live there. We have seen a local carpenter care for a house whose owners visit only part of the year, helping them maintain good relationships with the village. In other cases, local people help run a renovated minka and have a say in how it is used. That continuing stewardship matters as much as the renovation itself.

We want to study these relationships more closely. A research project planned for 2027 will examine what helps people moving into rural communities, including people from overseas, build good relationships when they purchase and care for a minka. We also want to understand where tensions arise and how new owners and established residents might work through them.

(AW) There's an environmental argument here too, but it seems more complicated than simply saying “reuse is sustainable.”

What does a 200-year-old timber frame teach us about our contemporary obsession with demolition, replacement and new construction? And are there lessons here for how we build in Britain today?

(AC/KN) A frame that has served for two centuries asks us to look closely before calling a building obsolete. Its timbers came from trees that took decades, sometimes much longer, to grow, and were selected, shaped, and joined by skilled people. Some pieces are of a size and character that could not simply be replaced today. When a house is demolished, usable materials can disappear along with the knowledge of how they were assembled. Even if the whole building cannot be saved, individual timbers and architectural elements may be used again.

Reuse is not automatically simple or free of environmental cost. Repair, insulation, transport, and sometimes relocation all require resources, and we should consider those honestly. But we should also consider what is lost when we demolish a building and begin again.

Our time in Britain brought us into conversation with restoration architects, carpenters, and others who have worked for years on the care of older buildings. We have much to learn from that experience. In Japan and Britain alike, it seems sensible to begin by asking what can be repaired and adapted before deciding to replace it. We would like to see more exchanges among craftspeople, foresters, designers, and communities in both countries. The practical knowledge of making a building last deserves a place in any discussion of sustainability.

(AW) Western audiences can be guilty of turning Japanese aesthetics into a kind of lifestyle — wabi-sabi, minimalism, natural materials, beautiful joinery.

How do you distinguish genuine engagement with Japanese building culture from the Western tendency to aestheticise or romanticise it?

(AC/KN) We understand why people are drawn to the beauty of Japanese timber buildings and joinery; we are drawn to it too. But a minka is more than an arrangement of pleasing materials and details. It was made by particular people, for a particular use and place. Learning about those connections, and about the work needed to care for the building, gives that appreciation greater depth.

Someone once approached us about relocating a temple gate for use as signage at a private home. We understood its appeal, but felt that such a use would not do justice to its history or to the community it had served. That does not mean a Japanese building can never find a new purpose, or that its design must remain untouched. It means asking more of a project than whether the result will look beautiful. We want to know what the building has been, who is involved in its future, and whether its new use respects what it has meant to others.

(AW) What has working between Japan and the West taught you about cultural exchange?

Are there things that Western architects, craftspeople or preservationists initially misunderstand about Japanese architecture — and, conversely, have Western approaches ever made you reconsider something about Japanese heritage?

(AC/KN) We have found that the most productive conversations often begin with shared work. A Japanese carpenter and a British or American timber framer may use different tools or solve a detail differently, but each understands the patience and judgment the other brings to wood. People sometimes expect the cultural distance to be greater than it feels once they are working and learning together. At the same time, differences in climate, building regulation, and everyday use must be taken seriously; a method that works beautifully in one place may need careful interpretation in another.

Working overseas has also made us look more closely at how historic buildings are cared for in other countries. During our visits to Britain, we met architects, carpenters, and preservationists with deep experience in restoration and long-term stewardship. Their work has encouraged us to think more carefully about the support a building needs after a renovation is finished, and about how owners, craftspeople, and communities share responsibility for its future. We hope to create more opportunities for people in Japan and other countries to work together, learn from one another, and develop their skills. Those relationships can continue beyond a particular project, allowing ideas and experience to travel in both directions over time.

(AW) Finally, imagine we speak again in 30 years.

What would make you feel that the Kominka Collective had succeeded — not simply because a certain number of houses survived, but because something larger had changed?

(AC/KN) In 2026, two minka were designated National Treasures, the first houses in that category to be honoured in this way. Thirty years from now, we would love to see many more minka recognised and celebrated. But a building should not have to be a National Treasure to have value. We would hope that far fewer owners felt demolition was their only realistic choice, and that the loss of minka and other traditional structures had slowed dramatically. That would require greater public understanding, practical support for repair and stewardship, and younger craftspeople able to learn these skills and earn a living using them.

We would want to see the buildings we have helped preserve in active use, cared for by people who know their histories. Some might remain in their villages; others, saved from demolition, might have found homes elsewhere. Just as important, the knowledge of how they were built and cared for would be passed on. Through gatherings, research, tours, and time spent learning from craftspeople, we hope people from different communities and countries will form relationships that continue beyond any one building.

If our work has helped owners, communities, craftspeople, and new stewards find one another, and helped people see an old house as a possibility rather than a burden, we would feel that we had contributed something worthwhile. Above all, we hope Japan will not one day realise that buildings which were treasures all along have disappeared. By then it would be too late. Thirty years is a long time to wait for change. Many buildings need a better chance now.

Kominka Reborn: Preserving Japan's Built Heritage

Pavilion
Registered Office: 34-40 High Street
Wanstead
London, E11 2RJ

+44 (0) 7523 018 239
info@paviliongallery.com

Kominka Reborn: Preserving Japan's Built Heritage

PavilionRegistered Office: 34-40 High StreetWansteadLondon, E11 2RJ

+44 (0) 7523 018 239info@paviliongallery.com

Pavilion
Registered Office: 34-40 High Street
Wanstead
London, E11 2RJ

+44 (0) 7523 018 239
info@paviliongallery.com