The writer Ryōtarō Shiba once visited a certain coastline in the Tōhoku region and described it as "the very shore I would most want to show to visitors from another planet." He seemed to believe that, rather than offering explanations, the best way to convey the beauty of Earth was simply to take them to that seashore.

The coastline I visited for the filming of this video, located in Karatsu, Saga Prefecture, was so beautiful that it called Shiba’s words to mind.

“Why did Tōgō Murano create such architecture? Who was Tōgō Murano to begin with?”

Whenever I encounter my grandfather’s work, I am overcome with a sense of mystery—how did he arrive at such forms of expression? I thought that perhaps if I were to visit the sea he gazed upon each day as a child, I might find something—an answer, or at least a clue.

Tōgō Murano was born in 1891 in Karatsu, Saga Prefecture, a small town facing the Genkai Sea along the Japan Sea coast, over 1,100 kilometers from Tokyo. Because his biological mother was in poor health, he was entrusted to the care of a woman living in a small fishing village along the coast. This woman, though living in poverty, was by all accounts an extraordinary person who raised my grandfather with deep affection.

I had the opportunity to visit that very coastline. Behind the shore stretched a long pine grove, and on the fine, white sands lay scattered shells of various shapes and colors, washed ashore by waves that advanced and retreated in rhythmic repetition. The waves that reached the beach were gentle yet intricate, and then they drew back once again. Small islands could be seen dotting the seascape. It was a place of overwhelming beauty—and that, in itself, says everything.

I set up my tripod directly in front of the beach where my grandfather’s childhood home once stood. The waves he watched more than 130 years ago were both the same and not the same as the waves I watched that day. I gazed at them for hours, capturing them with my camera.

As I imagined the world of his childhood, I found myself pondering all the more deeply: how did someone raised in such a modest fishing village come to create those architectural masterpieces? Rather than arriving at an answer, the mystery only deepened.

As I watched the waves, I began to ask myself, “If I were to take a visitor from another planet to a single place first, where would that be?”

At first, the Nissei Theatre came to mind. Then the Tanimura Art Museum, the Takarazuka Catholic Church, the former Chiyoda Life Insurance headquarters, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Cathedral—there were too many to choose from.

Just as Shiba believed that taking someone to a beautiful beach was the best way to convey the Earth’s beauty, I came to realize that for me, the places I would want to show to explain the beauty of humankind are the buildings my grandfather designed.

The word “Humanism” is often used in reference to Tōgō Murano’s architecture. Though I once thought I understood this term, it now seems to carry a new depth of meaning for me.

And yet, the mystery of Tōgō Murano remains.

Even after visiting the place where he grew up, I was unable to unravel it.

To feel the presence of a mystery, to want to solve it, to feel a surge of joy at having seemingly found the answer, and then in the next moment, to feel it slip through your fingers like grains of sand on the beach, and fall into despair—these, at least, are experiences we can claim as our own.

Many of Tōgō Murano’s buildings have already been lost for various reasons.

Still, I hope that many people will visit the remaining structures that endure throughout Japan, and that they too, will have their own encounter with the architecture of Tōgō Murano.

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My Speech at L'énigme Tôgo Murano - Un cas singulier de l'architecture du XXe siècle"

The Japanese Culture House of Paris

Paris, France

February 11, 2025