Metabolism and Mushrooms: An Interview with Mio Tsuneyama

JAMES BOWMAN FLETCHER The Robin Boyd & Japan project examines the connection between Robin Boyd and Japan, and Metabolism is a recurring theme that emphasises this connection.[1] Boyd had a close relationship with the Japanese architect Kenzō Tange, and his first written work explicitly focused on Japan was Kenzo Tange: Makers of Contemporary Architecture, published in 1962. At the time, Boyd described Tange’s work as “a symbol of the new Japan.” A few years later, he wrote New Directions in Japanese Architecture, expanding his focus beyond Tange’s work to include many who would later be recognised as the Metabolists of that era.[2] The recent forum event, where you were the keynote speaker, felt like a continuation of Boyd’s exploration of Japan, though now, six decades later, in a very different context. Now, as we speak over Zoom, you are in a very different Japan, and I am in a very different so-called Australia. I would like to not only discuss what you presented at the forum but also explore some of the broader themes that emerged, many of which seem to resonate throughout your practice. I found it interesting that your talk was framed around the significance of the Tōhoku earthquake and Fukushima nuclear accident, not just as a major historical event, but specifically in relation to your generation of architects in Japan. Can you tell us more about the importance of this tragic event?

MIO TSUNEYAMA I cannot generalise the experience, as each person’s response was different. In my case, I was in Switzerland when the earthquake struck, working as an architect in a firm in Basel. I only witnessed the disaster through the TV, but knowing it was happening in my own country made it deeply personal. As an architect, seeing entire cities and buildings destroyed. Not just by the earthquake but also by fire, tsunami, and the nuclear plant disaster. It was overwhelming. It raised urgent questions about what we, as architects, could do. On a practical level, as a young architect, the immediate response was to go there and help. But beyond that, as professionals, we also needed to rethink the future of these cities and the people who lived in them; what could we offer them? At the time, I felt completely helpless. I did not know how to physically repair the houses, streets, or city infrastructure that had been destroyed. And on a conceptual level, I did not know what to propose for rebuilding. I felt utterly lost.

That experience changed my entire perspective on architecture. Until then, I had been focused on designing refined, minimalist spaces with carefully considered materials and details, things I still appreciate, but I realised architecture had to be more than that. It had to contribute to society in a meaningful way. That realisation led me to return to Japan. I did not know exactly what I would do when I got back, but through conversations with clients and my partner, we gradually built a new platform for approaching architecture in a different way.

JBF In your talk, you spoke about the devastating effects of the earthquake, but what I found particularly interesting was the connection you made between the disaster and the processes of industrialisation and modernisation. If we consider the Metabolists, who Boyd was so interested in, they were a generation quite deeply intertwined with industrialisation and Modernist approaches. Many were formalists, emphasising structure and form within a framework of technological progress. You also spoke about the entanglements between humans and non-humans, introducing the idea of meshes and networks as a way of thinking beyond buildings as isolated, self-contained black boxes. Why is this perspective so important to you?

MT When modernist architects emerged, it was just the beginning of a larger shift. Even before World War II, modernisation had already started to take shape. Architects like Kenzō Tange and Kisho Kurokawa understood the era they were in and sought to redefine the foundations of architectural design within that context.

Of course, we live in modern cities, and we cannot ignore the reality that we rely on modernisation and globalisation. But at the same time, advancements in technology, especially the internet and digital tools, allow us to reconnect with more delicate, localised elements. Through these technologies, we have access to knowledge that was once lost or overlooked. For example, we can now easily find information on how to work with soil or build clay walls, reviving techniques once fundamental to traditional architecture.

JBF For me, your comment just then connects to a strong sense of connection through decentralisation that runs through your work, and it is especially evident in how you describe Studio mnm’s notion of urban wild ecology. Could you elaborate on how urban wild ecology differs from the idea of a closed, isolated, and disconnected architectural object or a “black box” building? How does this approach challenge architectural conventions?

MT Urban wild ecology was a subtitle of Holes in the House (2017-) and represents our goal of making urban life more dynamic and interconnected with natural processes.[3] Our buildings are not static; they evolve continuously alongside our life stages. What we experience and feel is reflected in the way we design and adapt our spaces.

JBF It is never complete.

MT Yes, it is continuous; our lives and the buildings we inhabit are inseparable. To embrace this, we need to reclaim the wisdom we once had before modernization. If we build our own environments, we also have the ability to repair them ourselves, rather than relying on external agencies. I have come to realise that this perspective differs significantly from both political ecology and deep ecology. [4] Political ecology is centred on human interests and often shaped by technology, national policies, or corporate agendas. Deep ecology, on the other hand, is nature-centric, often neglecting human happiness and comfort. Of course, comfort is important, but not in the sense of instant convenience, like receiving goods from the Amazon overnight or maintaining a constant indoor temperature of 22 degrees, even in winter.[5] Rather, comfort should come from understanding and supporting life in a way that respects other species. This approach aligns more with an urban wild ecology, one that acknowledges multiple species, fosters connections, and envisions an architecture that is not exclusively human.

JBF  There is a quite clear contrast here, for example, with Kenzō Tange’s or Kisho Kurokawa’s work within the Metabolist movement, which Robin Boyd was so interested in decades ago. You have already mentioned Holes in the House, and I wanted to ask you something specific about that project, considering you are also sitting inside it. Something that sets it apart from the Metabolists Boyd was exploring are the holes you made throughout the existing house (in the floors and walls, for example). In many ways, these holes are additive rather than extractive. When we typically think of holes in the context of industrialisation and modernisation, we associate them with extraction, removing material, or consuming resources. The holes act as voids, yet they add to the house by creating connections. I also see a connection to Yoshiharu Tsukamoto’s (Atelier Bow-Wow) and his writings on void metabolism, though in a different way. Could you speak more about how you determined the placement and number of holes in the house?

MT The holes in the house are designed to connect intangible elements, light, air, and sound, allowing them to circulate throughout the space. They bring light from above to the lower floors and create a sense of presence between different levels. Even with minimal openings, the connection is amplified when integrated with the staircase, as the staircase itself is already a link between floors. Beyond their functional role in regulating the interior environment, these voids also serve as a symbolic gesture, challenging existing regulations, institutional constraints, and the commercialisation of housing. They push against the idea of a house as a product to be completed and sold, a concept deeply tied to capitalist systems. In Japan, the housing industry revolves around selling homes rather than the act of making or living in them. Regulations enforce a notion of “completion” to certify and sell houses, reinforcing this cycle rather than fostering sustainable, long-term living environments. This approach accelerated after the 1960s, and today, the average lifespan of a house in Japan is just 27 years, far shorter than a human lifespan and even shorter than a single generation's use. It is an absurd system. Through this project, we wanted to challenge not just housing norms but also the idea that homeownership is synonymous with a lifelong loan. In a way, the hole itself becomes a symbol of breaking free from this structure.

JBF Previously, I had engaged with the holes as acts of removal, unbuilding, or something like that. But hearing you talk about them in relation to stripping away the building systems that define a “complete” structure adds another layer again. It also ties back to what you mentioned earlier about respecting and living with the building. By taking elements away, you have created a project that encourages coexistence with, rather than dominance over, the structure.

MT People often add things to a space as they use it. But in this project, we approached the design of the house through demolition, not just physically, but also by dismantling the systems that seem logical in their creation but do not necessarily make sense as a whole over time. It is about thinking critically at every stage, embracing demolition as a form of decomposition and re-evaluation.

JBF And decomposition ensures that the house is never truly complete, and as a system, too?

MT It cannot be complete.

JBF  It is a kind of resistance. You have given the house strength by taking something away. Shifting to another project you mentioned in your forum presentation, House for Seven People (2013), it feels different in that it has a greater sense of “completeness” compared to Holes in the House. It resists and challenges different conventions, particularly ideas about how many people can live together in one house. Could you talk a bit about your approach to this project? How did it come to be designed for seven occupants? And when making key decisions like offsetting the upstairs corridor from the existing external wall and its windows. What were the underlying considerations that shaped the project?

MT House for Seven People was the first project I took on after returning in 2013, two years after the Tōhoku earthquake. But even before the disaster, Japan was already experiencing economic instability, with major financial institutions collapsing and widespread unemployment emerging as a result. Many of those affected were young people, and the earthquake and Fukushima nuclear accident further shifted their perspective on life. Before, the traditional path in Japan was clear: secure a stable job, work at the same company for life, earn a steady salary, buy a house and car, and start a family. This was seen as the definition of success and stability, especially for my parents’ generation. But after these crises, young people began questioning what was considered “normal.” Their way of living started to change, rather than following the nuclear family model, they began living with friends, repurposing and renovating single-family homes originally designed for traditional households. After unrelated people started sharing homes, the spatial requirements shifted. Unlike traditional family homes, these new living arrangements encouraged openness; residents would invite friends more freely, making the house more socially connected. Even if the number of people living in a house remained the same, our understanding of how to design and use space had to change. Reusing abandoned houses was a relatively new concept in Japan. In the real estate market, these houses were considered valueless, yet they were still physically usable. This shift in mindset, from valuing only the new (a symbol of economic success) to appreciating and reusing existing structures, became increasingly significant. It was no longer just about economic growth but about respect for materials and sustainability. Rather than discarding what was considered obsolete, people began to see the potential in preserving and repurposing.

At the same time, collective living provided financial relief. Land in Japan is expensive, but by sharing housing with like-minded people, residents could afford a larger space instead of being confined to a small 20-square-meter studio apartment. In this way, cooperation led to an improved quality of life. The idea of mutual support expanded beyond the family unit to a broader community of individuals who shared common values. This shift became a growing movement in cities after the earthquake, and House for Seven People (2013) stands as a symbol of that change. The project also became a catalyst for my husband and me to later develop Holes in the House (2017-). While House for Seven People appears more complete, it remains unfinished in a fundamental way. Due to budget constraints, we were unable to install insulation. Ideally, insulation would have been an environmentally responsible choice, reducing CO₂ emissions, but it was not financially feasible at the time. Instead, we planned for it to be added later when funds became available. This decision reflected a broader shift in thinking, moving away from the idea of a house needing to be “complete” upon purchase. Instead, it could grow and evolve over time, adapting to the needs and resources of its occupants. For us, prioritising accessibility and making this kind of housing available to those who wanted to reuse and rebuild their lives was more important than achieving a predetermined standard of environmental efficiency. We saw immense potential in supporting people who embraced this approach.

JBF The mindset of those seven people seems quite central to the project. The layout of the sleeping spaces feels somewhat unconventional, not just in size but also in how they relate to the common areas on the ground level and the circulation spaces, which border the centralised sleeping spaces. Was this something that evolved through discussions with the residents, or was it established early in the design process?

MT  First, while this layout might seem unconventional, it is actually quite present in traditional Japanese architecture. The concept of the engawa corridor, typically positioned along the edge of a house, was easy to communicate to the occupants. From a practical standpoint, it also offered better energy efficiency by offsetting the living spaces from the outer skin, making it easier to manage insulation levels. These were the two main reasons I presented to the clients. However, as architects, we were also interested in experimenting with alternatives to a centralised corridor, which often feels dark and enclosed. We wanted to explore how a different spatial arrangement might influence communication and interaction. I shared this idea with the clients, and they immediately understood and embraced it, so it was not a difficult concept to implement.

JBF Speaking of tradition and conventions, I would like to shift away from this project to a related question. Toward the end of the day at the Forum: Found in Translation, when you were in discussion with Marika Neustupny (NMBW), you mentioned how Kazuo Shinohara always said that minka [vernacular or traditional Japanese houses] is a mushroom, not architecture. I found this notion particularly compelling because it speaks to a broader tension that seemed to emerge throughout the presentations at the Forum between architecture’s reliance on vernacular traditions and its intention to create some distance from them. Whether or not you see that same tension, I would love to hear more from you about what Shinohara meant by that.[6]

MT Shinohara was a researcher of minka and village life. He spent time studying and visiting these traditional houses, observing how they were built using local resources, like rice straw and clay from rice fields. Minka were direct reflections of the inhabitants’ work and lifestyles; the people who built them also lived and worked in them. For Shinohara, this contrasted with houses designed by architects. While he saw minka as distinct from architectural works, he was also deeply influenced by them. He incorporated elements such as doma (earthen floors) and shoji screens into his own designs, exploring how to elevate the house as an art form. He believed that a house is the most profound reflection of life, embodying the philosophy of its inhabitants. In that sense, he saw minka as something separate from an architect’s work, yet he sought to reinterpret and update its principles in his own work. With modernisation, however, minka have largely disappeared. Houses are no longer built from materials sourced directly from their surroundings; instead, they come from factories, relying on global supply chains. This shift has disconnected architecture from place-based resources. Looking at Holes in the House and House for Seven People through this lens, they share a fundamental connection to minka. These projects reuse materials found within the house itself, adapting to the way people actually live rather than imposing a pre-designed aesthetic. In a way, they reflect a process of “growing from the ground” rather than being dictated by an architect’s vision of beauty. Today, minka no longer emerge organically from their environments. Instead, architects must actively reconnect materials, spaces, and people. The house can no longer grow naturally on its own, like a mushroom does. Architects need to weave together the invisible but essential elements that make a home.

JBF I am glad you said that because my next question was exactly that: is Holes in the House (2017-) a mushroom? As you mentioned earlier, the ‘minka’ being built in Japan today [as reproductions of ‘traditional’ houses] are no longer the mushrooms that Shinohara said they were. They do not emerge from their surroundings anymore.

MT No.

JBF So, we can say then that the Holes in the House (2017-) is a mushroom, in the sense of Shinohara’s comparison?

MT Yes, it is a mushroom in reverse.

AFTERWORD

The transcript, quite intentionally, ends here with the Holes in the House (2017–) situated in relation to Shinohara’s comparison between the locally connected and entangled house, work and life (minka) and the architecturally designed house for a client (architecture). It is with this notion that Studio mnm’s work continues to have a productive relationship with much of what seemed to emerge at the Robin Boyd Foundation’s Forum: Found in Translation.

The speakers at Forum: Found in Translation included Mio Tsuneyama, Studio mnm (Tokyo); Ayano Toki and Yohei Omura, Parafeeld (Brisbane); Ben Berwick, Prevalent (Sydney/Newcastle); Dan Hill, Melbourne School of Design (Melbourne); David Neustein, Other Architects (Sydney); James Jamison, Niimori Jamison (Melbourne); Louise Wright, Baracco+Wright (Melbourne); Marika Neustupny, NMBW Architecture (Melbourne).

Forum: Found in Translation was presented by the Robin Boyd Foundation on November 23, 2024, curated in collaboration with David Neustein, Director, Other Architects, held on Wurundjeri Country at Sanders Place, designed by NMBW, Openwork & Finding Infinity and built by Never Stop Group. The Forum was generously supported by Jeff and Mariko Provan (Mori Foundation and Melbourne Place).

This interview was edited throughout the transcription process.

[1] “Metabolism” is a term associated with a post-war architectural movement in Japan. In Charles Jencks’ introduction to Kisho Kurokawa’s (a prominent Metabolist) Metabolism in Architecture (1977, 9), he tells us that utopian projects like Kiyonori Kikutake’s City Over the Sea Project (1960) with plug-in apartments, arranged in multiple cylindrical towers out at sea, were what came first; the name “Metabolism” was chosen afterwards, from a dictionary, and this choice was related to many Metabolist projects replacing the machine analogy that belonged to Modernist architecture with the analogy of the organism.

[2] The Metabolists were the prominent figures of Metabolism; however, Boyd’s New Directions in Japanese Architecture did not just include Metabolists or the Metabolists.

[3] Coherent with the Studio mnm’s approach to the project, the Holes in the House (2017-) project has no end date. This project is also where Mio and her partner Fuminori Nousaku live and work.

[4] Mio often contextualises urban wild ecology in contrast to political ecology and deep ecology—see The Berlage Keynotes: Studio mnm, 2023, online lecture, https://theberlage.nl/events/urban-wild-ecology

[5] Mio mentioned that for some time they lived in the Holes in the House during a Tokyo winter without windows.

[6] Mio noted that it is her understanding that a substantial portion of Kazuo Shinohara’s writings related to his research on minka has not yet been published in English.