Reinforced concrete and the barebone aesthetics of brutalism rarely come to mind with the mention of Japanese architecture. They might seem like the exact opposite of what typifies the country’s architectural preferences—airy wooden structures with tatami floors and paper panels that slide open for unobstructed views of serene gardens. However, brutalist modern buildings are very much within the pantheon of Japanese architecture, and they stem from the very sense of harmony and reverence for nature that permeates the local tradition for centuries.

Brutal Zen is an Instagram account dedicated to the raw beauty of Japanese brutalism. Created by Okinawa-based British photographer Paul Tulett, it features brutalist structures spanning several decades and various locations. From Olympic stadiums to residential homes and small shops, Tulett appreciates the beauty of brutalist textures, the simple materials, and the interplay of shadow and light. He’s driven by the minimal, solid, and geometrical look of these buildings and by the fact that their brutal beauty is often misunderstood and scorned.

“Someone recently said to me that ‘it’s inexplicable’ that brutalist buildings are allowed in Japan given the country’s wonderful traditional architecture,” Tulett says. “Is it also inexplicable that, say, modern Spanish architecture does not universally incorporate stucco walls and red-tiled roofs?”

Concrete, dominant in almost every building Tulett photographs, is the quintessential element of brutalism and from where the movement derives its name: from Le Corbusier’s use of béton brut, meaning “raw concrete” in French. Simultaneously versatile, inexpensive, inherently sculptural, and powerfully expressive, concrete is central to the brutalist sentiment that materials should stand for themselves. Brutalist buildings rarely have any finishings. They expose their raw materials shamelessly. In effect, they lend their beauty and integrity from them. 

They also fully expose their basic structure. Elements like beams, pillars, walls, stairs, and roofs are clearly visible as if asserting their purposes. Even someone with no architectural training can still make sense of how these buildings are built and what they’re made of—brutalist constructions bear no deceiving aspects.

It’s this absolute frankness that Tulett regards as so unique about brutalism. It was also what caught his eye when he first consciously photographed a brutalist building, The National Theatre in London. “What struck me was its commanding presence on the Southbank of The River Thames. My eye was also drawn to the honesty seen in the grain embossment left on the concrete by timber molds,” he says. Tulett is also drawn to the temporality of brutalist architecture and how they gain character with weathering and time.

But the same characteristics that shine in the eyes of Tulett and many other enthusiasts of brutalism also make it a particularly divisive form of architecture. Brutalist structures are so uncompromising and unusual that they almost immediately prompt condemnation in most people, often viewed as aggressive, dull, or downright ugly. Arguably, the critics have a point. Despite being visually impressive, these constructions don’t aspire to be aesthetically pleasing. In his seminal 1955 article for The Architectural Review, architectural critic Reyner Banham describes the brutalist style as an “image,” something visually valuable, but not necessarily beautiful, at least not by classical standards. He relies on Thomas Aquinas’ theory that an “image” is not always quod visum placet, something that pleases the eye, but is, in fact, quod visum perturbat, something that affects emotions. Hence, as Banham shows, brutalist buildings resonate with people on an imminent emotional level rather than merely on an aesthetically pleasing one.  

Still, how do these bewildering structures relate to Japanese architecture? As Tulett points out, English architects Alison and Peter Smithson, deemed the progenitors of brutalism, were admittedly influenced by Japanese architectural traditions. In the first defining statement for the movement, published in Architectural Design magazine, also in 1955, they declared that the “new brutalism,” as it was then called, used Japanese architecture as a “yardstick” for principles such as open space concept, purist aesthetics, and reverence for nature. The latter two would have led to a preference for the minimal aesthetic and the adoption of materials in raw form.

Even before brutalism, however, an entire generation of modern architects in Europe and the United States were already looking East, as Felix Torkar remarks: “Frank Lloyd Wright translated the whole lingering Western orientalist fascination into something that resonated with the modernist movement.” Torkar formerly maintained SOS Brutalism, an online database of brutalist structures with preservation aims. Now he’s completing a Ph.D. in Japanese brutalism at The Free University of Berlin. “Many early modernists admired the functional purity of traditional Japanese architecture. Interestingly, Kenzo Tange translated that literally back into Brutalism with the Kagawa Prefectural Office. He created this whole global subgenre of pronounced, protruding lintel and beam constructions.”

Kenzo Tange is one of the most celebrated Japanese architects of all time. His work was instrumental in postwar reconstruction and in laying the foundation for modern architecture in the country, notably manifested through brutalism and metabolism. But the work of Tange and other early modern Japanese architects was still very much rooted in tradition. For one, many of the fundamental concepts of modern architecture in its broader sense, such as simplicity, honesty, and purity, already overlapped with principles all-important to Japanese culture.

Japanese architects also rejected the abstraction of the so-called international style, very common in the West and represented by rectangular buildings made of glass, steel, and concrete, such as the skyscrapers of Chicago. They preferred to reinterpret their traditional forms in innovative ways, like the iconic suspended roof that Tange designed for the Yoyogi Olympic Arena in Tokyo, which blended vernacular architecture with the technology of modern suspension bridges. Another example is Tadao Ando’s Azuma House in Osaka, a townhouse that’s a concrete monolith with no windows but with a central courtyard that allows for the integration with nature through the sky. 

In the collective consciousness today, people associate brutalism to a sense of dystopia, doubtlessly influenced by movies such as Clockwork Orange, Blade Runner, and Akira, which feature brutalist structures within dark settings. However, for mid-century western architects, brutalism often sent the opposite message, representing a socialist utopia. In the Soviet block, it encapsulated political confidence and state authority. But in Japan, its practical usage and functionality always eclipsed any ideological aspects, as explains Ben Leighton, founder of cultural platform Tokyo Cowboy: “I don’t view brutalism in Japan as something that was historically destined to happen. I think it was reactionary in the face of large-scale destruction after the war. Tange and the other architects were prioritizing efficiency and utilitarianism.”

The practicality of architecture is essential when considering Japan’s unforgiving climate. Icy winters and humid summers are the yearly norms. Traditional Japanese architecture follows the idea that one can always warm up by wearing more layers of clothes, but there is no way to escape extreme heat and humidity. So, architects designed buildings with summer in mind. Thin walls, paper screens, and open windows are great for ventilation and keeping interiors cool, but they don’t do a very good job in thermal insulation. However, thick concrete walls and floors maintain a constant temperature all year round, keeping the heat out during summers and the cold out during winters. They’re also suitable for privacy and sound isolation, as we can see with Ando’s house, which is quite convenient considering Japan’s overpopulated and compact cities.

And there’s also the function of endurance. Japan is a country battered with a high rate of natural disasters. Because of that, its architecture has grown heavier and sturdier in the last century, more capable of withstanding recurrent earthquakes, floods, typhoons, and fires. This is particularly noticeable in Okinawa, where ninety percent of new buildings are made of concrete. “For good and bad, the Okinawans aren’t ones for ideology,” Tulett says. “Brutalism here was born of necessity. Okinawa is seasonally battered by typhoons. Housing anything from hair-salons to aged-care centers, even contemporary constructions often fit the neo-brutal moniker.”  

Given the wealth of concrete architecture in Okinawa, it is hard for Tulett to pick one favorite brutalist building. But, he elected three that stand out the most.

Nago City Hall

Built in 1981, Nago City Hall is an unusual building with a colonnaded exterior made of breeze concrete blocks. The structure acts as a climbing frame for plants to grow, blocking sunlight penetration and enhancing interior ventilation, both much-needed in subtropical Okinawa. “The whole structure exudes an earthy pungency that is tempered by the fragrance of weaving bougainvillea. Drinks vending machines aside, the place smacks of an undiscovered jungle ruin,” Tulett says. 

He observes critical regionalism in the structure’s pergola roofs whose angles match those of traditional Okinawan homes. The building also used to flaunt a large set of shisha statues, Okinawan lion figures with the talismanic purpose of guarding and protecting the building. However, these were recently removed due to salt erosion and the risk of falling during a typhoon. 

Nago Civic Center

Just across the road from the City Hall sits the Nago Civic Center. Completed a little later in 1985, this building features a far more obvious brutalist facade than its tree-inspired neighbor. 

“From a fifteen-minute drive away, we can already see the sheer and impenetrable wall of concrete,” Tulett says. The building houses two large assembly halls, one with the capacity of about one thousand people and another one half its size, and a community center. All share a common grassed area that faces the sea, reflecting the importance of the courtyard in traditional Okinawan architecture. 

“Both the Civic Center and the City Hall, along with a few other buildings in the area, make for a real theme park of concrete architecture, an instructive microcosm of fully functional and heavily utilized brutalism in Okinawa.”

Naha Prefectural Museum 

Opened only in 2007, the Naha Prefectural Museum is an exceptional example of neo-brutalism. The cascading structure made of local Okinawan limestone houses the collection of local art, history, and natural history artifacts.

“This building borrows from ancient Okinawan fortresses, the gusuku. Yet, it’s simultaneously futuristic with its gentle curves, rectilinear geometry, and stacked forms. Despite the sci-fi feel, the grid pattern, and the resulting chiaroscuro, actually represents deference to the flower block widely used for screening, ventilation, and decoration,” Tulett says.

“All three buildings follow the principles of legibility, accessibility, and permeability,” he adds. “They also ooze the values of brutalism: raw concrete, simple repetitive features, and imposing visuals. Yet, each is unique. Together, they reflect the diversity of concrete architecture in Okinawa.”

Both the Nago City Hall and the Civic Center are fully functioning buildings that, beyond their civic purposes, also serve as great gathering spots for Okinawans. But Tulett believes that most Okinawans are, at the very least, indifferent towards them. “To be honest, while the locals socialize in and around these brutalist buildings, I don’t think they give them too much thought. This is best exemplified by the lack of protest at the mooted demolition of the Nago City Hall,” he says.

Another fascinating building that has its future uncertain according to recent news is Tokyo’s iconic Nakagin Capsule Tower, perhaps the world’s greatest exponent of metabolist architecture. In truth, for decades now, several brutalist buildings and their derivatives worldwide have been constantly under the threat of the wrecking ball. Such an impending threat is what prompted the initiative behind SOS Brutalism, which aims to raise awareness of endangered buildings and even identifies the ones facing imminent risks of demolition—currently 209 structures out of over two thousand listed in their database. 

Fortunately, there’s a recently revived interest in brutalist architecture motivated by the appreciation of its honest aesthetic and retro-futuristic appeal. “This revival perhaps stems from a fascination with the visuals of ‘yesterday’s tomorrow’ and the fact that many brutalist buildings would not look out of place in a Star Wars movie,” Tulett says. But he thinks that, in Japan, however, there has been no revival. That’s because the architectural style has never really lost its force in the country—as it’s conspicuous with the Okinawan example—and was constantly employed due to its practical benefits. “Perhaps that’s why it is taken for granted here,” he says. “But this may well change with the re-use of the brutalist Tokyo 1964 buildings for Tokyo 2020 and result in the same brutalist revival seen in the West and in South Korea.”

Dubbed the “science fiction games,” the 1964 Tokyo Olympics showcased Japan’s resilience in overcoming the devastation of World War II. In the years before the event, Tokyo and many other parts of the country resembled giant construction sites. With the arrival of the Olympics, old ramshackle structures were replaced by an array of brand-new buildings, most of which were made of reinforced concrete. Modern stadiums and other sports facilities were also built. They were symbols of a new, democratic, and forward-thinking Japan. Some of these venues, including Tange’s Yoyogi Arena, will also host events in the Tokyo 2020 games, to happen this year despite the global pandemic.

In 1964, the opening ceremony had Yoshinori Sakai as the final torchbearer to light the Olympic cauldron. He stood triumphantly at the center of a spectacle celebrating an international community through sports, one into which his country was once more welcomed. But Sakai was not chosen based on his athletic prowess. He never even went as far as competing in an actual Olympics and only won his single gold medal the following year in the Asian Games in Bangkok. Far more important was the fact that he was born in Hiroshima on the same day the Americans dropped the atomic bomb. Sakai himself was the symbol of Japanese rebirth and endurance—as are the brutalist marvels that triumph over cityscapes all across the country.

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Instagram: @brutal_zen

Contributors: Tomas Pinheiro
Chinese Translation: Olivia Li
Images Courtesy of Paul Tulett