Dogs and Demons

Since the entire thrust of development in Kyoto since its Tower was built has been to escape from the old and build a modern city, it seems only fair to measure the place by its own standards. What if Kyoto were to wipe away its ancient heritage entirely? A dedicated modernist might feel this was justified if it meant creating a city of leading-edge contemporary culture.

This is what has happened in Hong Kong, where a tree-lined harbor filled with quaint junks gave way to a cityscape of dazzling office towers, one of the wonders of the modern world. The same may well happen in Shanghai and Bangkok, where developers have treated the charming old city centers brutally, but where dramatic new buildings are rising from the dust-hotels, restaurants, office towers, and apartments that vie with the best in Hong Kong or New York.

This did not happen – and is not happening – in Japan. The ugly view from the top of the Grand Hotel in Kyoto is less a consequence of the loss of the old than a result of the low quality of the new.

Nothing could run more contrary to the trend of Western commentary on Japan for the past fifty years than the argument that Japan has failed in its pursuit of modernity. However, that is the truth. Instead of an advanced new civilization, Japan has tenement cities and a culture of cheap industrial junk. Homes are cramped and poorly built; public environments, whether in hotels, zoos, parks, apartment buildings, hospitals, or libraries, are sadly lacking in visual pleasure and basic comforts, at least compared with those available in other advanced nations. This failure to achieve quality in the new is perhaps Japan's greatest tragedy-and it lies at the very core of its cultural meltdown today.

It's the unexpected result, a devastating boomerang, of the policy that economists and social scientists once believed was Japan's greatest strength: the policy of «poor people, strong state»; the policy of having its citizens accept a low level of consumption and limited outlets for pleasure and relaxation in their personal lives so that the nation's resources could be invested in unlimited industrial expansion. That happened, and in the process Japan nurtured a bureaucracy uneducated in modern technologies and several generations of Japanese who are ignorant of what true modernity might offer-ignorant, one might say, of the finer things of modern life. And this has had not only cultural but economic consequences.

To get some sense of contrast with other nations, consider Malaysia. As you drive between Port Klang on the Strait of Malacca and the capital, Kuala Lumpur, the highway passes through spectacular valleys of rocky cliffs. While building this road, Malaysia called in a French landscaping firm to advise on how to make it beautiful, including how to sculpt the cliffs through which the highway passes. The result of their efforts is that there was no unnecessary destruction, no concrete in sight, and the cliffs appear to be natural. It's a classic example of modern technology, in the true sense of the word, in road building. Such a highway does not exist the length or breadth of Japan, for calling in foreign consultants would have been unthinkable, and road-building techniques froze in about 1970.

In downtown Kuala Lumpur itself, high-rises are springing up everywhere, and the city is beginning to take on the sleek, elegant look one also sees in Hong Kong, Singapore, Jakarta, and parts of Bangkok but rarely in cluttered Tokyo. By looking closely, one can discern the details that make the difference.

One is the lack of junk on rooftops. In Japan, electrical machinery and air-conditioning units appear to have been tacked onto rooftops as afterthoughts. It is possible to put unsightly mechanical components inside a building's internal structure and to integrate them architecturally, but in Japan a regulation dating from the 1950s and never altered punishes a builder for using internal space for such machinery by subtracting that space from his allowable floor-area ratio (FAR).

Japan has no regulations limiting billboards; in fact, its construction laws actively encourage billboards on top of buildings because of another regulation concerning height limits. Builders may increase the height of their structures by a story or two if the added height is merely empty boxes on the roofs. Naturally, the next step is to mount enormous logos and advertisements on these boxes. Back in Kuala Lumpur, you will not see many such signs, and most of the ones you do observe belong to Japanese-owned businesses and were designed by Japanese architectural firms that know no other way. Looking out of my apartment window in Bangkok, I can see dozens of skyscrapers, only one of which sports a large rooftop billboard – Hitachi. In Japan, there is so little understanding of sign control that Hitachi has even made a deal with the Cultural Agency to place advertisements beside all buildings designated as National Treasures or Important Cultural Properties. In Kyoto, you will see scores of metal Hitachi signs placed prominently in Zen gardens and before the gate of every historical temple and pavilion. A short walk through the grounds of Daitokuji, the fountainhead of Zen arts, yields a count of no fewer than twenty-five Hitachi signs, with four in one sub-temple, Daisen-In, alone.

Other East Asian cities-Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, and Hong Kong-go far beyond Bangkok in regulating advertisements; Jakarta boasts some of East Asia's best sign control through a taxation policy that makes the raising and maintenance of large ads expensive. In Japan, in contrast, architects learn nothing about signage in their university courses. During the 1980s, the concept of «visual pollution» spread through the international design community, and attention began to be paid to observations that bright, flashing lights disturb the peace of residential neighborhoods, garish signs lower the tone of five-star hotels, fluorescent lights destroy the romance of parks at nighttime, and towering billboards detract from the beauty of scenic countryside. The science of avoiding and ameliorating this sort of visual pollution is a modern technology.

Visual pollution in Japan has resulted from the same vicious cycle we have seen in other aspects of its life: in the case of the environment, construction breeds dependence on more construction; in banking, deception leads to greater deception; in urban design, ugliness gradually comes to be taken for granted, which leads to ignorance and thus to more ugliness. An architect friend of mine, Lucilo Pena, helped to design the Four Seasons Hotel in Barcelona, in which the Japanese department store Sogo was one of the investors. Lucilo tells of acrimonious discussions between the hotel operators and the Japanese owners concerning signs, for Sogo wanted a huge flashing sign on the outside of the hotel, and it seemed impossible to convince Sogo's management that in Barcelona this was considered a plan that would damage the ambience of the city and lower the prestige of both the department-store owners and the hotel. Sogo gave in when its representatives realized that in the West citizens might resort to boycotts of a company that flouts local concerns, but it came as a shock.

In Japan, there are almost no zoning laws, no taxation policy, and no sign control to regulate urban or rural development – so giant billboards tower over rice paddies, vending machines stand in the lobbies of ritzy hotels and Kabuki theaters, and bright plastic signs hang in even the most stylish restaurants. People who are born, grow up, live, and work in such an environment know of no alternative; and the result is that the general public, as well as planners and architects, think this kind of look is an inherent part of modernization. It is thus not surprising that Hitachi would blazon its name across the Bangkok skyline when few American, European, Thai, or Chinese corporations feel the need to do so.

Zoning – the political and social science of making the most efficient use of different types of land – is a crucial skill that Japan's bureaucrats have failed to master. The distinction between industrial, commercial, residential, and agricultural neighborhoods hardly exists. In the residential neighborhood of Kameoka, near Kyoto, where I live, I need walk only about five minutes to find-right next door to suburban homes and rice paddies – a used-car lot, a gigantic rusting fuel tank filled with nobody knows what, a plot surrounded by a prefabricated steel wall twenty feet high in which construction waste is dumped, rows of vending machines with blinking lights, a golf driving range half the size of a football field surrounded by wire mesh hung from giant pylons and illuminated at night, a vast number of signs of every type (pinned onto trees, propped up by the roadside), and, of course, a pachinko parlor, with towers of spiraling neon and flashing strobe lights. This is the typical level of visual pollution in the suburban neighborhood of a Japanese city, and nobody considers it odd, because every structure scrupulously obeys the rules: FAR ratios, footprint quotas, allowable building materials, location of telephone poles, and so forth. It is the Through the Looking-Glass world of bureaucratic management: there is no lack of regulation, yet chaos reigns.

Many of the regulations exist to protect cartels of architectural firms and construction companies. Others, such as those that effectively prohibit residential homes from having basements, are cobweb-covered relics. Their original purpose is lost in time, yet no one considers changing them. Indeed, the complete inflexibility of these rules and regulations creates more of the clutter and crowding that characterize Japanese cities.

Kyoto, for example, had a golden opportunity in the 1960s, when it was working on renovations for the Olympic Games. Had it zoned the city differently north and south at the train station (most of the historic center lies north of the station), the old center could easily have been protected and saved. To the south, where most of the buildings except a few large temples were poor, shoddily built, and ripe for redevelopment, Kyoto could have created a new satellite city – like La Defense, the supermodern suburb of Paris. But of course this did not happen. Instead, bureaucrats applied rigid FAR and height limitations everywhere, which led to a cycle of rising land prices, high inheritance taxes, and destruction in the city center, and at the same time prevented the development of good new architecture. Rather than having a truly new city in the south and a beautiful old city in the north, Kyoto today has neither new nor old but a conglomeration where everything looks equally shabby.

The two regulations that have had the most devastating effect on Japan's cities are those concerning the inheritance tax and the so-called Sunlight Law. Japan's inheritance tax is one of the highest in the world; as land prices have risen continually for a half century, inheritors of old houses almost invariably have to sell them in order to pay the tax. For the purchasers, these prices are so high that it is uneconomical to leave single-story old wooden buildings standing, so they tear them down and build apartment blocks. The Tax Office grants very few exemptions for buildings in historic neighborhoods, and the tax guidelines, determined by the central government, are inflexible, so that local administrations cannot easily structure their own neighborhood systems. Faced with laws like this, Kyoto didn't stand a chance.

The Sunlight Law was passed in the 1960s as a well-meaning effort to restrict high buildings that would shroud their neighbors in shade. It created a formula whereby buildings must fit within a diagonal «shadow line,» which means that the higher they rise the narrower they must be. This accounts for the stepped, pyramidal look of most Japanese buildings. Americans made a similar mistake in the 1960s and 1970s, when «street setback» was a magic phrase. This had disastrous effects on thousands of American cities, for it turns out that buildings that come right up to the sidewalk create an intimacy that setback structures lack. New York City learned this to its cost when zoning laws encouraged the sterile office towers on the Avenue of the Americas, which are set back from the street and fronted by wide vacant plazas.

Japan's Sunlight Law also restricts building because on a given plot of land a higher structure often cannot use to the full whatever is allowed by local FAR regulations. As a result,Tokyo has an average FAR of less than 2 to 1, the lowest of any world capital, including Paris and Rome. «Low density» sounds attractive – until one realizes what this means for the inhabitants of a metropolis with 30 million people: the highest land prices in the world, cramped apartments and homes (millions of Tokyo residents dwell in spaces even smaller than the official minimum of fifty square meters), exorbitant commercial rents, and crowded commuter trains that must transport people several hours from their homes to work. With buildable land in Tokyo expensive and scarce, the Construction Ministry favors plans by big construction companies to build giant cities underground. From their underground apartments, it imagines, residents will speed on subways to subterranean office buildings. So effective is the Sunlight Law that future homeowners in Tokyo need never see the light of day.

Japan is the world's only advanced country that does not bury telephone cables and electric lines. While a handful of neighborhoods, such as the central Marunouchi business district of Tokyo, have succeeded in laying cables underground, these are mostly expensive showpieces. Even the most advanced new residential districts customarily do not bury cables, as I discovered when I was working on the Sumitomo Trust Bank/Trammell Crow project on Kobe's Rokko Island in 1987. Kobe City touted the island-brand-new landfill in the harbor – as a supermodern, futuristic neighborhood. With telephone poles. In the countryside, a «priority policy» dictates that until every large city has buried every one of its power lines, which the Construction Ministry is encouraging them not to do, no rural area can do the same with support from the central government.

Here, in a nutshell, is Japan's bureaucratic dynamic at work The first stage, the starting point after Japan's defeat in World War II, is the poor people, strong state principle. Central planners considered the extra effort and expense required to do such things as burying cables luxurious and wasteful, drawing needed resources away from industry.

The second stage, policy freeze, came in the early 1970s. Unaccustomed to burying cables, Japan's bureaucrats came to believe that the nation shouldn't, indeed couldn't, bury them. They cooked up justifications for the policy, such as the added dangers in the event of earthquakes. (In fact, a nation that is likely to have frequent earthquakes should bury lines, as became clear in the Kobe quake of 1995. Toppled poles carrying live wires were one of the biggest dangers, blocking traffic and wreaking havoc with rescue efforts.) Another argument was that Japan had uniquely damp soil, which made it harder to bury lines there than in other countries. (This belongs to the «Special Snow» school of thought, made famous when trade negotiators in the 1980s asserted that «Japanese snow is unsuitable to foreign skis.») The inner logic is that Japan's uniqueness forbids it to bury cables. Since burying cables is not what Japan has done, it is un-Japanese to do so.

The third stage is addiction. Making concrete and steel pylons has become a profitable cartelized business; meanwhile, utilities have a free hand to plan power grids without regard for the look of urban or rural neighborhoods, for the inconvenience posed by poles jutting into narrow roads, or for anything else. And since the power companies have not learned the skill of efficient, safe, and well-designed cable laying and have never had to factor in the costs, today they simply cannot afford them. Meanwhile, the Construction Ministry, driven by the «uniquely damp soil» ideology, has mandated protective coverings юг underground cable strong enough to survive the apocalypse, making it the most expensive in the world.

My friend Morimoto Yasuyoshi recently moved to Sanjo Street, in the heart of historic Kyoto. When people in the neighborhood got together to discuss revitalizing this famous but now shabby street, he suggested that the city remove the clutter of aboveground wires and lines and bury them. He learned that this would be close to impossible, because of a rule that says when a street decides to bury its lines, property owners must forfeit their right to a few square feet of space on the pavement to allow for electrical boxes every fifty meters or so. (Why there must be boxes so close together, and above ground, is not clear. After all, the basic idea is to put all the apparatus underground. It would seem to spring from bureaucratic resistance to the very idea of burying wires. Something should be above ground!) Japan's land values being what they are, no one can afford to give up those precious square feet.

Mild addiction results in total addiction when Japan ends up relying on technologies that actually require the existence of poles. In the 1990s, Japan began pushing the PHS cellular phone as its big contender in the mobile-phone business. Unlike other new systems, which are truly wireless and satellite-linked, PHS sends signals to small relay boxes that must be set up every few dozen meters on traffic-light or telephone poles. With the full weight of officialdom thrown behind PHS, Japan will never bury its power lines and phone wires.

We have reached the final stage: decoration. Since about 1995, the trend has been to replace the old concrete poles in certain city blocks with fancy ones clad in polished bronze. Rather like the «designer concrete» (shaped like hexagons or molded to look like rocks) that Japan is developing for its rivers and mountains, designer telephone poles are now in evidence. It's a classic Dogs and Demons approach to city planning: The city feels it has done something. Each pole, up close, looks prettier. However, the street, festooned with wires, looks as cluttered as before.

Combine the Sunlight Law with regulations that encourage machinery boxes and billboards on rooftops, and you get the chaotic look of the typical Japanese cityscape. Add to this the absence of zoning and sign control, and factor in vending machines and electric and phone wires-and you get the visual clutter that is a defining feature of daily life in Japan. Japanese architects have become so accustomed to it that they can imagine no alternative. Despite manifold evidence to the contrary in garden-filled, neatly organized old Kyoto and Beijing-not to mention Penang, Kuala Lumpur, Hong Kong, and Jakarta – Japanese architects justify shadeless trashy cities as somehow uniquely «Asian.» When Baba Shozo, a former editor of Japan Architect magazine, was asked whether there might be some improvement in city planning, such as more parks (the average is 14 percent open space for cities in Japan, versus 35 percent in Europe and 40 percent in the United States), he is reported to have responded, «It's absolutely not necessary. Tokyo's population is totally satisfied with the way things are... After all, we are living in an Asian city. It's natural the way it is. Parks and open spaces are not required. Who needs green space?»

Foreign writers on Japanese architecture condescendingly accept this line of reasoning. Christine Hawley writes of a Tokyo neighborhood: «The scale was distinctly 'sub' urban, and architectural grain identifiably oriental. There was of course the visual compression of space, the use of low, horizontally defined buildings covered in banners, signs, and the ubiquitous web of service lines as they run in and around the buildings.» City planners in Singapore and Malaysia, the most vociferous champions of «Asian values,» would be surprised to learn that poorly regulated advertisements and unburied service lines are «identifiably oriental.»

Clutter is not the whole story. People crave open views and clean city lines, so planners respond with monumental «new cities,» boasting wide avenues and enormous office towers surrounded by pavemented parks and windswept plazas. The pendulum swings in the direction of total sterility. One cannot fail to be struck by the complete inhumanity of the new urban landscape at Kobe's Port Island or Tokyo's Makuhari and Odaiba. Gigantic office towers are surrounded by empty access roads, vacant squares, and shadeless rows of pollarded trees. There is no middle ground in Japan's cities – only the two extremes of shabby or sterile.

«New Japan does not like trees,» Donald Richie wrote in The Inland Sea back in 1971. In Richie's day, this truth was expressed in the tendency to bulldoze parks and plazas; in the 1980s it developed into an aversion to falling leaves, which was discussed in an earlier chapter; in the 1990s, it became an attack on branches. Until very recently, in Tokyo, shady tree-lined avenues surrounded the zoo side of Ueno Park and Tokyo University, but not anymore. A desire on the part of civic administrators to widen the streets and do away with shade has led to new rules that require the pruning of all branches that extend over a roadway; this policy has been carried out all over the country.

Keats wrote, «the trees / That whisper round a temple become soon / Dear as the temple's self» – a sentiment clearly not in the mind of the Cultural Ministry when it restored Zuiryuji Temple in the town of Takaoka in 1996. In the true spirit of Nakahara Kiiko, it cut down and uprooted a grove of ancient keaki and pine trees that had stood for hundreds of years in the temple courtyard and replaced them with a wide expanse of raked gravel. Although the temple's founder had expressly designed the courtyard to conjure up the cypress groves of Zen temples in China, the ministry decided that flat gravel was more Zen to their liking – and certainly more beautiful than those messy old trees that interfered with the view.

The new war on urban trees is baffling. I cannot fathom its causes, but I can proffer a guess. The inconvenience posed by trees hardly compares with the telephone poles that take up space on both sides of narrow roads, but perhaps the trees, with their unruly branches going this way and that, offend the authorities' spirit of order. Perhaps the long decades of sacrificing everything to industrial growth have had their effect: sterility has become a part of modern Japanese style. Certainly, if you travel in Asia you can immediately recognize the Japanese touch in hotels and office buildings by the lack of trees and, instead, the rows of low-clipped azalea bushes around them.

A curious aspect of the tree war is the primitive level of skill with which it is waged. Japan is the land of bonsai and is famous worldwide for its great gardening traditions. Many and varied are the techniques for pruning and shortening each twig and bough-gradual clipping over years or even decades to shape a branch as it grows, props to support old tree limbs as they droop, canvas wrappings to protect bark from cold and insects, and much more – sensitive techniques developed over centuries, of which until recently the West knew little. Yet tree pruning in Japan today is truly a hack job. No gradual, delicate work here-just limbs roughly chainsawed off at the base, with no treatment to protect against insects and rot. «What bothers me the most,» says Mason Florence, «is the brutality of it. The trees look like animals mutilated or skinned alive in medical experiments.»

A world of traditional skills in the arts of building homes and cities evaporated when postwar Japan despoiled its old neighborhoods. The destruction happened so quickly that these arts and crafts never had a chance to adapt to modern Japanese life, and today they seem to have lost relevance. The quiet, low-key comforts, the incredible finesse of detail found, for example, in Japan's old inns belong to an entirely different civilization from the shiny Bakelite interiors of Kyoto's new hotels. Similarly, in just a few decades Japanese public gardening technique went from tender pruning to brutal hack jobs.

A salient element in any comparison of Singapore's advanced city planning, which has given it the name Garden City, and Japan's is the treatment of trees. The drive from Changi Airport into downtown Singapore is one of the pleasures of the modern world. You whirl along a highway lined with a canopy of spreading trees – all newly planted in the past few decades – and under bridges from which flowering vines trail. Southeast Asian garden expert William Warren, in his book on Singapore, has included this highway and also the airport itself as examples of Asia's great gardens. He told me, «I was astonished at the devotion of the botanical staff in Singapore. These are well-educated professionals who love, really love, their work.» In Japan, you will not find professionalism, and certainly nothing like love, among those who tend city streets. Work crews saw off branches according to a program drawn up by bureaucrats in downtown offices. Aside from a few showpieces, like Tokyo's Omotesando fashion street, you would be hard put to find trees arching over a road even in a small provincial town, and if you do, you had better enjoy it, photograph it, and treasure it, because it will probably not be there the next time you visit. Chainsawing is the law of the land.

Yet «Tokyo is a resort!» writes Sano Tadakatsu, director general of International Economic Affairs at MITI. It is because of the winter sun, he explains, so sadly lacking in northern European cities; the lack of sunlight drives Europeans to take those regrettable long vacations in their lovely holiday homes. In contrast, sun-drenched Tokyo is so marvelous that «even foreigners living in Japan do not want to have holiday homes,» and in any case, «children born in this high growth era see nothing wrong with concrete buildings.»

Sano is right. What happens to people living in cities like Tokyo? They get used to it. «Many people of my generation feel angry,» says Igarashi Takayoshi, the author of a best-selling book on wasteful public works. «We have an idea of how nature should be, but the younger generation doesn't. Students are not shocked by images of environmental destruction the way I am – they got used to it growing up.» Recently, Andrew Maerkle, the sixteen-year-old son of an American family in Osaka, and his parents and I had occasion to drive east from Kobe, through Osaka, and down the coast of the Inland Sea to the town of Izumi-Otsu, near the New Kansai Airport. For hours we drove along elevated expressways, giving us a view to the horizon of unrelieved industrial horror. In that bleak landscape live millions of people, in desolate rows of apartments barely distinguishable from the factories around them. Andrew gazed at the flashing billboards, the towering pylons for high-tension wires, the flaming smokestacks, the jumble of buildings stretching to the horizon without a tree or a park, and commented, «I read a lot of Japanese manga comics at school, and I was always impressed by their view of the future. Apocalyptic. Now I see where it comes from.»

Just as people get used to bleak cityscapes, they come to feel at home with cheap industrial materials. Kyoto art expert David Kidd once said to me, «The Japanese have gotten so used to living with fake wood that they can't tell the difference between it and real wood. They think they're the same.» A good place to see this confusion at work is the Arita Porcelain Museum, in northern Kyushu, dedicated to the traditional craft of hand-enameled Imari ceramics. The structure, designed in the rococo style, is built of concrete covered with plaster to look like stone; the dining-room tables are plastic, with printed wood patterns-this in a museum built at great expense to celebrate hand craftsmanship!

One does not expect this lack of understanding of materials in Japan, for «love of materials» is one of the most sublime principles of traditional Japanese art – with its unpainted wood, rough stone surfaces, and unglazed pottery. And yet modern Japan is notable for its persistent use of ill-processed plastic, chrome, highly glazed tile, aluminum, and concrete. These cheap industrial materials are everywhere. At a recent show at the Idemitsu Museum, famed as Tokyo's greatest museum of Asian ceramics, there was a bonsai at the entrance – in an orange plastic pot.

How could a nation that once seemed to have an inherent understanding of natural material fall into the unquestioning use of industrial junk? As with its destruction of the countryside, the explanation cannot be simplistic arguments about «Westernization» or about uniquely «Asian» values. It may be that the very tradition of using plain materials, without treatment or processing, underlies Japan's guileless use of plastic and aluminum today; Japanese builders are simply taking what they find in their environment and using it, as is. Another factor may be the traditional «love of reflective surfaces,» once evidenced by gold screens, smooth lacquer, and the glint of polished swords. But the simpler, probably truer explanation is that Japan has embraced an old-fashioned idea of modernism, in which these bright shiny surfaces show that one is wealthy and technologically advanced, and quiet, low-key environments suggest backwardness. In any case, the key word is «shiny.» Japan is caught in a time warp, its vision of the future derived from sci-fi movies of the 1960s.

The poor people, strong state policy has been in effect more or less since 1868, with only a few decades of relief (notably a brief cultural renaissance in the 1920s and another in the 1960s). For most of the past century and a half, Japan's leaders have single-mindedly aimed at foreign expansion, and this has distorted the nation's modern development. For hundreds of years during the Edo period (in fact, for most of its recorded history), Japan did not aim at conquering its neighbors, either militarily or economically; instead, it applied its energies to itself, and the results were not economic poverty or cultural stagnation, as one might suppose. Instead, Japan flourished, so much so that by the early nineteenth century it was, per capita, by far the wealthiest Asian nation and boasted some of the world's most beautiful cities, literally millions of superbly crafted traditional homes, and an incredibly rich cultural tradition that has since exerted a powerful influence on the rest of the world.

Commodore Perry's arrival in 1854 set off shock waves whose reverberations can still be felt today. Japan set out on a desperate effort first to resist and later to challenge the West, and while it achieved spectacular success, it did serious damage to its own cultural legacy. Today, the beautiful cities are gone, as are the superbly crafted homes, and the leisure that Edo people once had to create a great world culture. Nothing could be more ironic: pursuit of foreign gain at all costs ended up impoverishing the nation.

The paradigm established in the late nineteenth century under the influence of European nationalism was one of military conquest, and it has never really changed: Japan's bureaucratic leaders still think of economic expansion in terms of war. Military metaphors abound in business, government, and the press. Karel van Wolferen describes Japan's system as «a wartime economy operating in peacetime,» and a crucial part of this economy is the principle of poor people, strong state. The military has always hated luxury, for it makes people lazy and soft, and from this point of view poor people, strong state is a classic military approach to governance, as we know from the history of the ancient kingdom of Sparta.

Plutarch reports that Lycurgus, when drafting the laws of Sparta, began with house design. Lycurgus decreed that ceilings should be wrought by the ax, gates and doors smoothed only by the saw «Luxury and a house of this kind could not well be companions,» Plutarch comments. «Doubtless he had good reason to think that they would proportion their beds to their houses, and their coverlets to their beds, and the rest of their goods and furniture to these.»

In Japan, likewise, the poor people, strong state policy rests on cramped and poorly built housing. Matthias Ley, a German photographer based in Tokyo, told me that once, when he was taking a German publisher from Osaka Airport into Kyoto, the publisher looked out at a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, a typical jumble of concrete boxes and electric wires, and asked innocently, «So this is where the poor people live?» The answer to that question was, unfortunately, No, this is where everyone lives.

A frequent misunderstanding about Japan is the claim that there is not enough land to support its large population, that Japan is «crowded,» hence land costs are high. In fact, Japan's population density is comparable to that of many prosperous (and still-beautiful) European countries. Another myth is that, given how mountainous much of Japan is, the habitable land area is bound to be small. This begs the question of what is «habitable land.» Hills did not stop Tuscany from developing beautifully, or San Francisco, or Hong Kong. The problem lies in land use.

In Japan, there are many laws restricting both the supply of land available for housing and what can be built on it. With homes prohibitively expensive – in the early 1990s banks were arranging mortgages that would bind families unto the third generation – the people are forced to save; banks then channel these savings at low interest to industry. After the Bubble deflated in 1990, the government panicked, and since then national policy has been to prop up land prices at all costs.

One way that the government restricts land use is by rigorously enforcing low floor-to-area ratios, unchanged from the days when Japanese cities consisted mostly of one- and two-story wooden buildings. The Sunlight Law and low FAR in big cities like Tokyo and Osaka results in street after street of low buildings even in expensive commercial areas. Another way in which the government restricts land use is through outdated regulations that subsidize owners who use their land as rice paddies; large areas of Tokyo are still zoned for agriculture. A third major obstacle to effective land use in Japan is that people cannot easily convert most mountain land for residential or commercial use. The virtual taboo against it dates to antiquity, when mountains were thought to be the domain of the gods, not of people. Given that most of Japan's landmass is mountainous, this effectively limits development to the crowded plain-lands and valleys.

After Lycurgus had finished laying down the laws for Sparta, he gathered the king and the people together and told them that all was complete, except for one final question that he needed to ask of the Oracle at Delphi. He made all the citizens take a solemn oath that they would not alter a single letter of his laws until he returned. Lycurgus went to Delphi and starved himself to death there, so as never to return, and the people, bound by their oath, maintained his laws unchanged for the next nine hundred years.

Japan is like this. Lycurgus left in about 1965, and since then nobody has changed anything. Land-use planners, for example, have never seriously examined the old taboo on mountain land, which has been a blessing in part, given the primitive state of Japanese city planning and the lack of environmental-impact controls. Although they have been replanted with cedar and honeycombed with concrete roads and embankments, at least the mountains have been spared the fate of the plainlands. On the other hand, this has driven up the cost of residential land elsewhere, which is why Japanese houses are 20 to 30 percent smaller than European homes and about three times more expensive, though they are built of shoddy, flimsy materials-plywood, tin, aluminum, molded vinyl sheets and, as the Kobe earthquake proved, are not designed to be earthquake-resistant (the lead in this technology is now coming from the United States). Most houses are almost completely uninsulated; people usually heat their rooms with separate units (commonly kerosene heaters) and have no special ventilation for exhaust fumes. Discomfort-bone-chilling cold in winter and sweaty heat in summer – is a defining feature of Japanese life.

One important trend in domestic architecture is quietly transforming neighborhoods across the country: prefabricated housing. «Prefab» in Japan means totally prefabricated, with the entire structure mass-manufactured by giant housing companies and delivered to homeowners as one package. Prefab homes now account for a majority of new Japanese houses – and in this there is some progress, and also a final blow to the urban landscape. On the plus side, the new homes are cleaner and more convenient than the old houses they replace. On the minus side, they represent the victory of sterility. Inside and outside surfaces consist of shiny processed materials so unnatural as to be unrecognizable. One cannot say whether they are concrete, metal, or something else, although for the most part they are plastic, extruded in various forms, and colored and tex-turized to look like concrete or metal. Industrial materials have had the last word: people now live within walls and on floors made of material that might as well be in a spaceship. This might have some futuristic appeal except that the houses are designed with exactly the same clutter and lack of ventilation and insulation as before.

Saddest of all is the utter uniformity of the prefab houses. Neighborhood after neighborhood has seen whatever character it once had disappear before rows of mass-produced homes in the shape of Model A, B, or C, all clad in exactly the same gray shade of hybrid construction material. It's another cycle in Japan's descending cultural spiral, something that no mere upturn or downturn in the economy is going to affect.

In any event, very few people, including the rich, have homes to which they can invite strangers with pride. A dinner party in Japan means dining out. A wedding reception in the back yard? Unthinkable. Most Japanese, regardless of wealth, education, taste, or personal interests, pass most of their social lives in public spaces-restaurants, wedding halls, and hotel banquet rooms. Modern Japanese homes are not places where one can commune intimately with one's friends.

Lycurgus would have approved. One of his most effective laws was one that forced all Spartan men to eat at the same communal table, never at home. «For the rich,» Plutarch wrote, «being obliged to go to the same table with the poor, could not make use of or enjoy their abundance, nor so much as please their vanity by looking at or displaying it. So that the common proverb, that Plutus, the god of riches, is blind, was nowhere in all the world literally verified but in Sparta. There, indeed, he was not only blind, but like a picture, without either life or morion.»

The restricting of the population to cramped, expensive, and now characterless prefabricated housing made of low-grade industrial materials suited Japan's policy of benefiting old-line manufacturing industries at all costs. However, new industries like interior design can prosper only when people are comfortable and educated enough to develop a higher level of taste.

The results are evident in hotels and resorts. While Kyoto is famed for its lovely old inns, the city has no modern hotel of international quality In Paris, Rome, Peking, or Bangkok, one can find modern hotels that incorporate local materials and design in such a way as to provide a sense of place, but Kyoto boasts not a single such instution. The big hotels (such as the Kyoto, Miyako, Brighton, and Prince), with their aluminum, granite, and glass lobbies, deny Kyoto's wood-and-paper culture in every way. Compare the wooden lattices and tree-lined entrance to the Sukhotai Hotel in Bangkok with the wall of dirty concrete and the narrow cement steps leading up to the Miyako Hotel, Kyoto's most prestigious. Stroll through the gardens filled with ponds and pavilions at the Inter-Continental or the Hilton in Bangkok, and then look at Kyoto Hotel's public plaza, a tiny barren area of granite paving surrounded by a yellow plastic bamboo fence. Drink a leisurely cup of coffee amid the greenery under the soaring teak-timbered vaults of the Hyatt in Bangkok, and then visit Kyoto's Prince, the hotel where most conventioneers stay, with its low ceilings and almost every surface of plastic and aluminum. For a nightcap, you could view the Bangkok skyline from the fiftieth floor of the Westin Hotel – surrounded by polished teak and rosewood paneling; or you could enjoy the floodlit rock and waterfall in the garden of the Royal Hotel in Kyoto – the rock being made of molded green fiberglass. One finds the same lack of quality in Tokyo, a city with only two attractive hotels, the Park Hyatt and the Four Seasons. In the case of the Park Hyatt, the low-key lighting, the elegant use of wood in hallways and elevators-all this was accomplished by shutting out Japanese designers. «We couldn't allow Japanese designers to be involved,» the management told me. «They wanted to fill it with aluminum and fluorescent lights.» And in the Four Seasons, where I noticed recently that the gold screens on the walls were antiques of high quality, I knew instantly that no Japanese designer would have chosen them. At the front desk, I asked who did the decor, and was told «designers from the Regent Chain in Hong Kong.»

So far we have been speaking of big city hotels with hundreds of rooms; when it comes to small garden hotels or boutique hotels, the contrast with other advanced nations is even more striking. There was a brief period in the late 1980s, at the height of the Bubble, when price was no object, when a few brave developers created hotels of striking originality, such as Kuzawa Mitushiro's colorful И Palazzo in Fukuoka, done in collaboration with Aldo Rossi. But with the collapse of the Bubble, developers settled back into the convenient old pattern of «business hotels,» with their cramped rooms, flat decor, and limited facilities. It would be fair to say that the very concept of a boutique hotel has yet to exist in Japan. There is no such thing as New York's witty Paragon or W hotels, nothing with the minimalist chic of Ian Schrager's creations-just the standard shiny marble lobbies one sees everywhere, with rooms designed with basic industrial efficiency. «But hotels are not just places to sleep,» says Schrager. «You're supposed to have fun there.»

Today's younger Japanese designers, who have grown up in landscapes such as the one the Maerkle family saw when they drove from Kobe to Izumi-Otsu, or the equally horrifying vista welcoming visitors at Narita Airport when they take the Narita express train into Tokyo, work accordingly. As Lycurgus predicted, people proportion «their beds to their houses, and their coverlets to their beds, and the rest of their goods and furniture to these.» Standardized shiny surfaces are what people really like and feel comfortable in. The victory of the industrial mode in Japanese life can be sensed in health spas, which, far from being relaxing natural retreats, look rather like clinics, with bright white corridors and attendants in surgical smocks. Boutique hotels, even were they to be introduced into Japan, would be bound to fail.

Tokyo and Osaka may boast a handful of attractive international hotels designed by foreigners, but the Japanese countryside remains solidly in the hands of domestic designers. Japanese resorts are so ill designed, so destructive of their surroundings, that in May 1997 the Environment Agency reported that 30 percent of all those surveyed did not live up to the agency's assessment criteria. By American, European, or Indonesian standards, that number would rise to more than 90 percent.

A good example of the sort of thing that happens can be seen in Iya Valley. Iya has Japan's last vine bridge, built by Heike refugees in the twelfth century and rehung with fresh vines regularly ever since. The Vine Bridge is Iya's most famous monument, visited by more than 500,000 people every year. What happened to it? The River Bureau flattened the riverbanks below with concrete; the Forestry Agency constructed a metal bridge right next to it; and resort builders then covered the surrounding valley slopes with concrete boxes and billboards. Travelers who have come from distant prefectures to get a view of the romance of the Heike line up on the metal bridge and take photographs, carefully framing the Vine Bridge to screen out the concrete and the billboards. The choice of accommodation is between minshuku (bed-and-breakfast in old homes) or a few big tourist hotels. Minshuku in old thatch-roofed houses sound attractive – and indeed would be, except that the interiors have been redone with synthetic veneer and fluorescent lights, and yet they still lack modern conveniences such as clean flush toilets and heated bathrooms. So a visit to the Vine Bridge in Iya is only, and just, that: one has seen the Vine Bridge, but there is little in the experience to relax the body or please the heart. In this, Iya'sVine Bridge symbolizes the anomalous fate of old cities like Kyoto and of rural scenery throughout Japan. Iya's mountains and gorges are nothing less than spectacular, the Vine Bridge itself a romance. Rich possibilities for cultural experience and travel are simply there for the taking – and yet a failure of «tourism technology» causes them to be ignored or damaged.

Ill-applied modernity can also be seen at the onsen (hot springs), which were one of Japan's most wonderful traditions. There are thousands of onsen in romantic environments beside rivers, atop mountains, and along pine-tree-clad seacoasts; they once boasted lovely buildings of wood and bamboo, exquisite service, healing hot waters, and the chance to relax amid beautiful natural scenery. You could lie in the hot water by an open window and watch the mist rise from the river or the trees around you.

Well, the onsen are still there, the hot water still flows, and the service is still good. But the ambience that made onsen uniquely relaxing is vanishing with the mists. Old onsen have been restored with lots of chrome and Astroturf, all the slapdash additions that damaged Kyoto; meanwhile, new onsen tend to look like cheap business hotels plopped down in the countryside or, at best, like bland white-and-gray bank lobbies.

It sometimes happens that enlightened owners manage to preserve the mood of an old onsen or design an attractive new one, but nothing can replace the lost rivers, mountains, and sea-coasts in which the onsen stand. Hardly a hot spring the length and breadth of Japan has not been in some way degraded by ugly, ill-designed resorts or civil-engineering projects. Robert Neff, the head of the Foreign Correspondents Club of Japan, writing about his search for «hidden onsen» far from the beaten track, summed up the situation sadly:

As Japan's countryside gives way before concrete, plastic, automatic vending machines, and pachinko parlors, hidden onsen make us forget the passage of time. It is a joy when I can report that such places still exist. Alas, they are on the verge of extinction. When I visited them some years back, these places were wonderfully untouched. But when I go to visit hidden onsen nowadays all vestige of former scenery has been removed, and replaced with modern monstrosities totally out of keeping with the surroundings. Or new highways, dams, hideous bridges, ski lifts, ropeways, and electrical generating stations are built where they can be seen right out the front door. [Translated from the Japanese]

Onsen were a true cultural treasure, which would have appealed to travelers from around the world; if they had been developed with truly modern design and management, there is no doubt that Japan could have based a thriving international tourist industry on them. Not so now. A few lovely onsen do exist, but loveliness in Japan has become a luxury that few can afford. Most of the affordable onsen have become places «neither here nor there» – a mix of nice scenery and eyesores – places you might visit if you happened to be in Japan and had some free time, but not destinations you would cross an ocean or spend a lot of money to see.

The historian Gibbon, an expert on the rise and fall of empire, wrote, «All that is human must retrograde if it does not advance.» Thirty or forty years ago, Japan had all the earmarks of modernism: technical finesse in manufacturing, clean cities, trains that ran on time. For bureaucrats, architects, university professors, and city planners, Japan seemed to have the perfect formula, and it needed only to develop on a grander scale along established lines. It was so deceptively reassuring that few observers noticed that time had stopped. Confident in their belief that their country had «got it right,» Japan's leaders firmly resisted new ideas, whether domestic or foreign. Lacking the critical ingredient, change, culture in Japan took on modernism's outward forms but lost its heart. Without new attitudes and fresh knowledge, the quality of life in cities and countryside, as Gibbon could have predicted, did indeed retrograde. This is the paradox of modern Japanese life: that although it is known as a nation of aesthetes, there is hardly a single feature of modern Japan touched by the hand of man that one could call beautiful.

In 1694, the haiku poet Basho set out on his final journey, one that he expected to be his greatest – he was traveling from the town of Ueno near Nara to Osaka, where he planned to meet with his disciples, put an end to their bickering, and set the haiku world to rights. But it didn't turn out that way. Basho fell sick along the way and died, having accomplished nothing. As his disciples gathered around his bedside, he granted them one final haiku:

Stricken on a journey

My dreams go wandering round

Withered fields.

After the 1960s, fueled by one of the greatest economic booms in world history, Japan embarked on a journey to a brave new world. During the next few decades, the old world was swept away with the expectation that a glorious new world would replace it. But somewhere along the way Japan was stricken on its journey. It is now clear that there will be no glorious new, no sparkling extravaganza of the future like Hong Kong, no tree-lined garden city like Singapore, not even a Kuala Lumpur or a Jakarta. Only withered fields – an apocalyptic expanse of aluminum, Hitachi signs, roof boxes, billboards, telephone wires, vending machines, granite pavement, flashing lights, plastic, and pachinko.