Rescuing the minka
ASKED why he wants to move an old Japanese farmhouse across the globe, Harrelson Stanley had a simple answer. “I have to do it,” said the 44-year-old woodworker, his fingertips poking through worn gloves after weeks of pounding and pulling the house apart. “It’s what I’m meant to do.”
Larry Ellison, chief executive of Oracle Corp., built a Japanese-style estate in Silicon Valley, complete with a teahouse he imported from Japan. But Stanley is no high-flying billionaire. And this is no delicate teahouse. Stanley and his wife, Sayuri, have four kids under age 18 and an annual income that averages $65,000. The farmhouse they are shipping to their home in Pepperell, Mass., from the rice paddies of northern Japan is a massive, 6,000-square-foot structure built in 1891 of hand-hewn logs.
“My wife sees the day-to-day financial reality and says, ‘This is crazy,’ ” Stanley said.
Here in Japan, although an overwhelming majority prefer to buy or build a new home, admirers of the nation’s centuries-old wooden farmhouses, or minka, are another story. The rustic homes epitomize the unadorned beauty that is the essence of Japanese artistry, reflecting their intimate bond with nature. Powerful posts and beams arch high overhead, supporting soaring roofs and spacious interiors that open to the garden.
Once a prominent feature of the Japanese countryside, minka have largely vanished since World War II, torn down or left to decompose as much of Japan’s population flocked to jobs in the cities. Kunihiro Ando, the University of Tsukuba professor of architectural design who headed a nationwide survey, estimated that the number of these thatched-roof farmhouses had dwindled from about 5 million in the 1960s to about 140,000 in 2002, and the number has since fallen.
But a quiet current of preservationists is working to save the few that are left, either in their original settings or transplanted elsewhere. Farmhouses that would otherwise be destroyed are being reincarnated as homes, restaurants and galleries. Several have been moved overseas.
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DEVOTEES of these cultural relics often fall in love with their bold, free-form spirit. Though the best, straightest wood was reserved for the samurai class, farmers made the most of what was left.
“Japan’s minka are like sculptures, works of art,” said architect Yoshihiro Takishita, founder of the nonprofit Assn. for Preserving Old Japanese Farmhouses. “I have looked around the world but never found another place where curved trees are used as anchor beams.”
The timber frames of minka are fastened with ingenious joints cut into the wood, rather than with metal nails and bolts. That means they can be pulled apart like three-dimensional puzzles and moved. The logs are then locked together again, to be linked by modern roofs and plaster walls, rather than the traditional thatch and clay.
Minka can be small, starting around 1,000 square feet, but they have vast roofs. Their rugged posts and beams hold the load, allowing for flexible layouts inside, with sliding partitions that can carve up the space or throw it open. An earthen-floored entryway and work space lead to a raised living and dining area centered on a sunken hearth. Together, they form a great hall open to the interlocking beams above. Smaller sleeping and guest rooms beyond it are hidden behind removable panels.
A revived minka combines the stature and serenity of the original with the comforts of modern life. A fourth dimension -- time -- shows in its adz-cut beams and the lacquer-like sheen of its sturdy pillars, left by generations of polishing cloths and the soot of hearth fires.
“The farmers found beauty in irregular materials, advantage in disadvantage,” said Shigeru Matsushita, museum interpreter at Nihon Minka-en, where folk houses from across Japan are preserved in an outdoor park.
“They are the Picasso of Japanese architecture.”
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GROWING up in Massachusetts, Harrelson Stanley knew nothing of Japan and its crafts traditions until he started studying carpentry. “Then I got a Japanese chisel, and it just blew me away,” he said. “I was hooked.”
He moved to Japan in 1987 as an apprentice carpenter and has wanted a minka of his own ever since. But his decision to bring one from this town 150 miles north of Tokyo to Pepperell, outside Boston, involves more than personal satisfaction.
His goal is to spread the gospel of traditional Japanese craftsmanship. He hopes the farmhouse will serve as shelter and inspiration for Americans studying under master artisans from Japan, from potters to sword makers. Volunteers from both countries, from teens to retirees, have already stepped up to help, stripping the house to its skeleton.
Perched on top of the open timber frame, nimble Japanese carpenters swung heavy mallets, trying to coax its aged wooden joints to let go. A computer engineer from Chicago, red hair damp under his hard hat, swallowed his fear of heights to clamber up with a crowbar.
“It’s like big-kid Tinker Toys,” said Michael Filler, one of several volunteers who paid his way to Japan to pitch in on the project.
Shimmying along a nearby beam was architecture student Chihiro Wada, entrusted with the crucial job of numbering each piece of wood and mapping its position.
As the house came down, word spread. An elderly architect in a kimono stopped by, then returned the next day to work, wheelbarrow in hand. Neighbors saw the structure with new eyes. Yoshinao Matsumoto, 82, shuffled up, a baseball cap atop his thick white hair.
“This is the most valuable building in Soma,” he said quietly. “They don’t make buildings like this any more.”
In its heyday, the stately farmhouse sheltered a rice farming family along with trays upon trays of silkworms raised in its cavernous attic. But like most Japanese, the Konno family had long ago given up farming for city life, and they left this remote community known for its seaweed farms and tasty rice.
Ownership of the house passed to Satoshi Konno, a 36-year-old single businessman who lives in Nagoya. He tried to donate the house to the town of Soma but was turned down.
“I thought I’d have to break it down in my lifetime,” said the soft-spoken Konno as he took a last walk through its naked posts and beams.
Instead, he presented it as a gift to Stanley, whom he met through the Assn. for Preserving Old Japanese Farmhouses. Takishita, its president, had saved his first minka in 1965, when dam construction was about to flood a village near his hometown of Shirotori in mountainous Gifu prefecture. He hauled the minka to the hills of Kamakura and went on to devote his life to rescuing farmhouses, moving one as far as Argentina.
“The first priority is to preserve the minka at the original site,” Takishita said. “If that’s impossible, then at least save it somewhere on Earth.”
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FROM the heavy stones at the base of their main pillars to the thatch that typically covers their crowns, minka reflect their native landscape. Some rooflines are steeply angled to shed snow, others flare as gently as a skirt in a breeze. Their flexible frames have weathered earthquakes since the 1700s, but urbanization has nearly done them in.
“Minka are on the verge of extinction at the beginning of the 21st century,” said professor Ando, a leader in the preservation movement. Minka are so rare that a village of towering farmhouses in remote Gifu was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1995 and now attracts 1 million visitors a year.
The Japan Minka Reuse & Recycle Assn. educates the public on minka preservation and finds owners for unwanted farmhouses through its “minka bank” listings. The minka it lists are offered free, but moving and restoring one in Japan run about $350,000, roughly the cost of building a new wooden home, said Toru Kanai, director general.
Architect Ryoichi Kinoshita of Atelier Ryo in Kyoto pegged the cost of transplanting a minka overseas at $600,000 and up, including flying in Japanese carpenters to put it back together.
Interest abroad appears to be picking up. Along with Stanley’s minka, two international projects are underway. A small Japanese farmhouse was assembled at Musee de l’Homme in Paris for an exhibit next year. Kinoshita just rebuilt a 200-year-old minka on a Hawaiian hillside for an American family who had lived in Japan.
“Japanese traditions like judo, sushi and Zen have become international hits,” Ando said in a light moment. “Next, maybe Japanese minka will be. Sometimes if foreigners see value in something, then the rest of Japan recognizes it.”
That’s how it worked for Masako Orita, who learned to appreciate her heritage while living in the United Kingdom, where her husband served as Japanese ambassador.
“We were often invited to country houses by our British friends, and they inspired us so much,” she said. “They are very proud of their beautiful old houses. I said to myself, wait a minute -- we have similar ones in Japan.”
Now retired, the Oritas had a minka transplanted to the Izu peninsula, south of Tokyo, this year. She finds solace among its blackened posts and beams, set off by smooth, white plaster walls.
“I feel so relaxed, among those natural materials,” she said. “They stood for 200 years, so you feel kind of safe surrounded by -- I don’t know -- your ancestors.”
About 87% of the homes sold in Japan each year are new, government data show. That’s the reverse of the United States, where 85% of sales are of existing homes. The average Japanese house lasts just 30 years.
But the renovation market is growing. Sumitomo Realty & Development Co., a major player in the housing market, began restoring minka three years ago in response to customer demand. It has completed 600 so far, 300 in the last year, spokesman Naotaka Ushigome said. Like many Japanese, he wasn’t aware of the possibilities a decade ago.
“I actually destroyed a minka,” he admitted sheepishly. “My grandfather was living there alone, and when he died, we broke it down. It’s a waste, really.
“If we had had this, it would have been very different,” he added, fingering his company’s glossy brochure with “before” and “after” photos of revived minka.
Stanley’s farmhouse is due to be shipped to Boston early next year. All but one of the major beams measured 39 feet and 9 inches, just right for the 40-foot shipping containers. The ridgepole beam stretched 55 feet and had to be cut. Stanley has gone into debt to finance his dream of building Shizutani School, a place where Japanese craftspeople will teach their arts.
“I’m sure my kids will remember me for this adventure,” he said. “Whether they learn to chase their own dreams or learn a big lesson in common sense is yet to be seen.”
Even before the house is loaded onto the ship, Takishita, the go-between on the project, felt that maybe he had fulfilled his purpose.
“We have a saying in Japan: ‘The lighthouse shines and you can see far, but not at your feet,’ ” Takishita said. “The villagers have treasures under their feet and they never noticed it before.”
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Susan Essoyan was in Japan on a Fulbright journalism grant.
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Color photos online
For an in-depth, full-color look at minka in Japan, including the deconstruction of Harrelson Stanley’s farmhouse in preparation for its shipment to the United States, please look for the extended picture gallery posted with this story at latimes.com/home.
