Interview with Hyunsoon Park

My path to becoming an architect was a journey of shifting perspectives—from the cinematic frame to the structural form. I began my studies at Hongik University in Korea, a place known for its vibrant creative energy. Interestingly, at that time, my heart was set on filmmaking. I was fascinated by how a director could control time, light, and emotion within a frame. However, while I was exploring cinema, I was formally studying in the Department of Architecture.

The true "shamanic" moment where I fell deeply into the depths of architecture was my time in Italy. In Milan, I realized that architecture is, in fact, the ultimate "living cinema." A building is not just a static object; it is a stage where human life unfolds, where the "Echoes" of history act as a background script, and where natural light directs the mood of every hour. Italy taught me that architecture could possess the same emotional depth as a masterpiece film, but with the added weight of physical permanence.

This cinematic background is why I eventually joined Nikken Sekkei to master the technical "production" of large-scale urban stages, like the Kumamoto Station Building. It also explains why I run a café today; it is my way of directing a daily "scene" of community life. What drives me is the desire to create spaces that aren't just seen, but are experienced as a moving story.

My design approach is a delicate balance between cinematic storytelling and rigorous engineering, deeply rooted in my daily lived experience. When I approach a new project, I prioritize these three aspects:

1. "Scene-driven" Context through Daily Observation:
My design process starts not at a desk, but behind the counter of my café in Takanawa. Starting my day at 4:30 AM and serving coffee from 5:00 AM gives me a "worm's-eye view" of how people actually interact with space. I observe how sunlight hits a table, how a conversation flows, and how the atmosphere shifts as the city wakes up. These real-life experiences are my primary data. I design "scenes" where human life can unfold naturally, ensuring the building acts as a living stage rather than a static object.

2. Material and Structural Honesty (The Hybrid Logic):
My style is defined by "Material Hybrids." Whether it is merging traditional brick with modern timber or steel, I believe each material must reveal its true structural role. I avoid superficial decoration. Instead, I focus on the beauty of the joint and the integrity of the skeleton—a technique I refined during my 15 years at Nikken Sekkei. I want the materials to feel "honest" to the touch, reflecting the tactile reality I experience every day handling tools and textures.

3. The Fusion of Hand and Machine:
My process is a constant dialogue between the STAEDTLER 0.3mm pigment liner and high-end digital modeling. I believe that the "human touch" must lead the "digital precision." I start by sketching by hand to capture the raw energy and "echo" of an idea born from my morning observations. Then, I use advanced computer-aided design (MacBook Pro) to verify the structural logic. I often create physical mock-ups because architecture is a tactile experience; like the weight of a coffee cup or the texture of a wooden counter, you cannot understand space through a screen alone.

For me, designing is a journey from the exhilaration of a "Flash" to the profound serenity of "Resonance."

The "Flash" of the Initial Idea:
The most exciting moment is undoubtedly the very beginning. As I often say, the core of a design is born in a single, decisive instant. When the history of the site and my intuition suddenly align, it feels like a "Flash" of lightning. It is a surge of pure adrenaline and joy—the feeling that a hidden story has finally found its voice. This "instant" is the spark that sustains me through the long journey ahead.

The Joy of Crafting the Detail:
While the initial idea is a burst of emotion, the subsequent process of detailed design is a period of "Meditative Discipline." Drawing every joint with my STAEDTLER liner brings a sense of calm and responsibility. I feel a deep satisfaction in solving the "puzzle" of hybrid structures—ensuring that the logic of engineering supports the beauty of the original spark.

The Ultimate Fulfillment: Atmosphere over Object:
However, the most lasting sense of happiness comes after the project is finished. Being a café owner, I have the unique privilege of witnessing my designs being "lived in" every day. When I see a customer find comfort in the way light hits a wooden bench, or hear the "Echoes" of a community gathering in a space I created, I feel a quiet, immense pleasure. Designing fulfills me because it is an act of "Atmospheric Empathy"—the realization that I have created a stage where someone else’s life can flourish. That resonance between the person and the space is my ultimate reward.

My identity as a designer is shaped by a fusion of three non-design pillars: the narrative eye of a filmmaker, the resilience of a businessman, and the attentiveness of a hospitality host.

1. Narrative Editing (from Cinema):
Studying cinema at Hongik University taught me that a project is more than a physical object; it is a story. The most valuable non-design skill I possess is the ability to edit a narrative. An architect must be able to cut out the unnecessary and focus on the "protagonist" of the space—whether it is a ray of light or a historical brick wall. This cinematic "editing" allows me to create spaces with a clear emotional arc.

2. Deep Observation and Empathy (from Hospitality):
Operating my own café in Takanawa is perhaps my most important non-design training. In hospitality, you learn to read the unspoken needs of people. By serving coffee every morning, I have developed a high level of empathy. I can sense when a person needs privacy or when they desire connection. This "human data" is far more beneficial than any textbook; it ensures my designs are rooted in the reality of human behavior.

3. Resilience and "Bridge-building" (from Intercultural Experience):
Living and training in Italy as a foreigner, and later navigating the complex corporate world of Nikken Sekkei, taught me resilience and negotiation. To realize a vision, an architect must be a diplomat who can bridge the gap between conservative authorities, diverse clients, and skilled craftsmen. This "bridge-building" skill was the biggest influence on my success with "Echoes Shinmachi."

Biggest Influence:
The biggest influence on my work is not a single person, but the "Spirit of the Place" (Genius Loci). I am inspired by how history survives in small details—a weathered texture or a street's rhythm. My journey has been a transition from wanting to be a "creator of shapes" to becoming a "listener of echoes," realizing that the most successful designs are those that serve as a humble vessel for human life and time.

My growth path is a transition from "Creating a Building" to "Cultivating a Landscape." Future Plans:
Following the success of "Echoes Shinmachi," my immediate goal is to establish my studio as a specialized lab for "Material Hybrids" and "Urban Acupuncture." I want to take the high-level technical expertise I gained at Nikken Sekkei and apply it to smaller, more intimate regional projects that larger firms often overlook. My plan is to expand my "Studio-cum-Café" model, creating a network of spaces where architecture and daily life are inseparable.

Dream Design Project:
My dream project is to design an entire historical district’s "Life Cycle." I want to move beyond a single landmark and work on a project that involves renovating old structures while inserting new, hybrid architecture to revitalize a whole neighborhood. I want to design a "Time-Traveler’s Library" or a "Community Wellness Hub" where the echoes of the past century seamlessly merge with the technology of the next. I want to tackle projects that I didn't have the resources for before—projects that require deep sociological research and complex structural innovation to save a dying community.

Legacy:
I want to be remembered as a "Translator of Time." I hope my designs are seen not as static monuments of the 21st century, but as enduring stages that grew more beautiful as they aged. I want people to say, "This building didn't just stand here; it listened to us." My dream is to prove that the most innovative design is one that makes people feel they have finally returned home.

My primary advice to young designers is: "Do not be in a hurry to find your style; instead, be in a hurry to experience the world."

The Warning: Beware of the "Digital Filter"
I want to warn young designers about the trap of "Pinterest Architecture." Today, it is too easy to scroll through beautiful images and mimic them without understanding the structural logic or the site's context. Relying solely on a digital filter detaches you from the reality of materials and human life. My warning is this: If you only look at screens, your designs will be thin. Go out, touch the brick, feel the grain of the wood, and watch how people move in the rain.

Overcoming Troubles: The Bridge between Ideal and Reality
In my early days, I struggled with the gap between my "cinematic ideals" and the "rigid constraints" of real-world construction. My time at Nikken Sekkei was a period of overcoming this by learning that constraints are not walls, but tools. The best advice I ever received from a mentor was: "The most beautiful detail is the one that solves a problem." This shifted my focus from aesthetics to "problem-solving through beauty."

How to Grow: The Library of the Senses
To expand my expertise, I rely on my "Library of the Senses." This isn't just about reading architecture books; it's about the daily observation of life at my café. Serving coffee at 5:00 AM teaches me more about "human-scale comfort" than any software ever could. To become successful, you must cultivate an interest in things other than design—philosophy, cinema, cooking, history. These non-design experiences are what give your work a soul.

To my fellow professionals, I suggest focusing on the "Invisible Logic" that supports the visible form. True success in our field isn't measured by how many buildings we complete, but by how deeply those buildings resonate with their environment over time. Here are my professional principles:

1. Master the "Structural Narrative":
The biggest mistake experienced designers often make is treating "structure" and "design" as separate entities. My advice is to embrace Material Hybrids not as a stylistic choice, but as a structural necessity that tells a story. When you merge timber, steel, and masonry, don't hide the joints. The honesty of the connection is where the architecture finds its soul. High-level professionalism is found in the integrity of the skeleton.

2. Avoid the "God Complex" – Be an Observer First:
As we gain experience, we tend to impose our vision on the site. I suggest a radical return to Deep Observation. My practice of running a café is a "pro-tip" in social research. By positioning yourself as a "provider" (of coffee, of space) rather than just a "creator," you gain insights into human behavior that no data set can provide. Real-world feedback is the only way to avoid the bias of academic or purely aesthetic design.

3. Cultivate "Creative Friction":
Don't seek the easiest path. The best projects come from the friction between modern technology and historical constraints. At Nikken Sekkei, I learned to navigate complex regulations; in my own practice, I seek out the "difficult" echoes of a site. Use your technical expertise to protect the fragility of the past. The shortcut to greatness is often the longest road—the one that requires the most thought and the deepest respect for the context.

4. Design the "Atmosphere," not the "Object":
We are not just designing walls; we are designing the air between them. Focus on how light, sound, and shadow interact with your materials at different times of the day. A successful professional knows that the most important part of the building is the part you cannot see—the "Echo" it leaves in the hearts of those who pass through it.

My day is a rhythmic transition from "Hospitality" to "Architecture," starting while the city is still asleep.

The Early Morning Ritual (5:00 AM - 10:00 AM):
My professional day begins at 4:30 AM. By 5:00 AM, I am at my café in Takanawa, grinding beans and preparing for the first customers. This isn't just a side business; it is my most important design research. As I serve coffee, I observe how the morning light enters the space and how people’s postures change as they wake up. I don't read design news; I "read" the atmosphere and the faces of my neighbors. These five hours of interaction provide me with the human-scale data that fuels my creativity.

Deep Design Work (10:00 AM - 6:00 PM):
Once the morning rush subsides, I shift into "Architect mode." I move to my studio desk—often with a fresh cup of coffee—and pick up my STAEDTLER 0.3mm pen. This is the time for deep work: sketching hybrid structures, coordinating with engineers, and digital modeling. Because I have already interacted with so many people in the morning, my design work feels grounded in reality rather than isolated in theory.

The "Little Joys" of a Business Day:
Even on a "boring" day of administrative tasks or complex regulations, there are small things that spark excitement. One is the tactile pleasure of a perfect hand-drawn line on tracing paper. Another is a moment of "unexpected resonance"—when a customer at the café mentions how the texture of a wooden counter feels "just right." Those small validations from non-designers are what make me happiest; they prove that my architectural intentions are reaching the human heart. My day ends with a quiet reflection on the "Echoes" I encountered, preparing my mind for the "Flash" of the next morning.

In the world of architecture, I believe "Timelessness" far outweighs "Trendiness."

My Stance on Trends:
I do not consciously follow the latest "hip" design trends. In fact, I am cautious of them. Trends are often superficial and ephemeral, whereas a building is a permanent addition to the earth that must stand for 50 or 100 years. Instead of following what is fashionable this season, I focus on developing my own "Personal Design Language"—one that is rooted in structural logic and the historical context of the site. My goal is to create architecture that looks as relevant and beautiful in 30 years as it does today.

The Role of Trends:
To me, trends matter only in terms of technological evolution. I keep up with the latest advancements in sustainable materials, hybrid structural engineering, and digital fabrication tools. These are not "trends" in style, but "progress" in performance. If I were to follow a trend, it would be through deep research into how new technology can better protect or express the "Echoes" of the past.

Sources of Inspiration:
My inspiration rarely comes from design magazines or social media. Instead, I find it in:

The "Genius Loci" (Spirit of the Place): The way the wind blows through a specific street in Kumamoto or the texture of an ancient brick wall in Milan.

Cinema: The way a director like Andrei Tarkovsky or Michelangelo Antonioni frames a scene to capture silence and emotion.

Daily Life: Observing the simple, honest interactions at my café.

I would rather develop a "Product Family" of buildings that share a consistent soul than create a one-off structure that reflects a passing fad. For me, the ultimate "trend" is the honesty of the material and the resonance of the space.

For me, a good design is one where "Logic and Emotion are indistinguishable." I evaluate a project based on three main criteria:

1. The "Aha!" Moment of Structural Integrity:
The one thing I look for in any project is the "Unity of Skeleton and Skin." When I see a building or a product and can immediately sense that its form is a direct result of its structural logic—rather than a superficial decoration—that is when I say, "Aha! That’s it." Good design feels "inevitable." It shouldn't look like it was decided; it should look like it had to be that way because of the materials and the context.

2. The Atmosphere of "Natural Resonance":
I judge a design by how it speaks to the senses over time. A well-designed space should feel comfortable even if you don't understand why. In my café, I see this every day: customers naturally gravitate toward certain corners because the light, the texture of the wood, and the scale of the room are in harmony. If a design creates a "scene" where human life can unfold without friction, it is a success.

3. Aging with Dignity:
A major criterion for me is "Longevity." I ask myself: "Will this look better in 20 years?" Good design embraces the passage of time. If a material is chosen only for its initial shine and becomes ugly as it wears, it is a poor design. I look for "Material Honesty"—materials like brick, timber, and steel that gain character through use.

Common Mistakes to Avoid:
The biggest mistake is "Over-designing." Many designers try to solve every problem with a new shape or a trendy material, resulting in a space that is "loud" but "shallow." Another mistake is ignoring the "Echoes" of the surroundings—creating an object that looks good in a studio but feels like a foreign body once placed in the real world. Good design is humble; it knows when to speak and when to be silent.

For me, a design is "ready" when the "Structural Logic" and the "Atmospheric Intent" become one. It is the moment when removing even a single line would make the whole story collapse.

The Moment of Completion:
I know a design is ready when I no longer feel the need to "explain" it. In the initial phases, I am constantly iterating—sketching with my STAEDTLER pen, building digital models, and testing hybrid structures. But there comes a point where the design reaches a state of "Quiet Inevitability." It feels like the building has already existed on that site, and I have simply uncovered it. When the plan, the material, and the "Echoes" of the surroundings align so perfectly that any further change would feel like "noise," I say, "This is it."

Is a Design Ever Complete?
Architecturally, the drawings may be "done," but a building is never truly "complete" until it is inhabited. I believe that architecture is a living process. Once the construction is finished, the users take over. They add their own layers of life, the materials begin to age, and the light changes over decades. I don't see this as a lack of completion; I see it as the final, essential iteration. In my mind, I always keep an "open tab" for my earlier designs, but not to change them—rather, to observe how they evolve so I can apply those lessons to the next "Flash" of inspiration.

The Definition of Success:
I know a project has become a success not when it receives an award or is published in a magazine, but when it starts to generate its own "Resonance." For "Echoes Shinmachi," success was the moment I saw people using the space exactly as I had imagined during my 5:00 AM coffee meditations—or better yet, using it in ways I couldn't have imagined. When a building becomes a beloved part of someone's daily scenery, it is finally ready.

My "biggest" design work exists in two distinct dimensions: the urban scale of Kumamoto Station Building and the philosophical depth of Echoes Shinmachi.

The Urban Landmark: Kumamoto Station Building
During my 15 years at Nikken Sekkei, I dedicated a significant portion of my life to the Kumamoto Station Building. This was my "biggest" work in terms of physical scale and social impact. My aspiration was to create a gateway that didn't just serve as a transit hub but as a living "green" valley for the citizens. Designing such a massive, multi-functional complex presented immense challenges—coordinating thousands of structural elements and balancing commercial vitality with public serenity. It taught me the "Language of Scale" and how architecture can breathe with an entire city.

The Spiritual Landmark: Echoes Shinmachi
However, the project that has given me the most profound satisfaction—my "best" work in terms of personal philosophy—is "Echoes Shinmachi." I designed this after becoming independent, specifically to answer a question: How can we revitalize a historic district using modern hybrid logic? It is special because it merges the technical precision I learned at Nikken Sekkei with my own "Material Hybrid" concept (brick and timber). The challenge was to respect the invisible "Echoes" of the 400-year-old Shinmachi area while creating a bold, contemporary structure.

Key Aspects & Satisfaction:
What makes "Echoes" my biggest success is the "Resonance" it created. Winning the A' Design Award for my debut project was a validation of my belief that "Urban Acupuncture"—small but high-quality intervention—can be as powerful as a skyscraper. Currently, I am excited about a new renovation project for a historical warehouse (Kura), where I am taking these lessons even further, proving that architecture is an eternal bridge between generations.

If I were given the chance to talk with a single "designer" from the past, it would undoubtedly be Leonardo da Vinci. To me, he is the most iconic creator of all time because he completely dissolved the boundary between science and art.

Why Leonardo?
I find him incredibly cool because his designs were never superficial. Whether he was sketching a flying machine or an anatomical study, his work was driven by a deep desire to understand the underlying logic of nature. As an architect who values "Structural Logic," I deeply admire his approach: he didn't just draw the surface; he understood the "skeleton" and the "mechanics" of how things work.

The Impact on My Design:
Leonardo’s belief that "Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication" has a profound impact on my understanding of good design. In my work—from the large-scale Kumamoto Station Building to the hybrid structure of Echoes Shinmachi—I strive for that same Leonardo-esque honesty. I want my architecture to be a result of logical necessity, where every material (like the brick and timber in Echoes) plays a clear, functional role, much like the muscles and bones in Leonardo’s drawings.

My lifestyle is a deliberate blend of Zen-like discipline and European intellectual curiosity, shaped by a unique journey across three Asian and European cultures.

Inspiring Cities & Culture:
My identity is a "Cultural Hybrid." I was born and raised in Japan, where I naturally absorbed the local sense of precision, minimalist beauty, and a deep respect for harmony. To broaden my horizons, I moved to Korea to study at Hongik University, where I explored the worlds of cinema and architecture, gaining a dynamic creative energy. However, the true turning point was my Master's degree in Italy. In Milan, I learned how to bridge the gap between ancient history and modern innovation. This path—from my roots in Japan to my academic growth in Korea and Italy—allows me to look at every project through a global lens, searching for the "Echoes" that connect different eras and cultures.

The Role of Music & Daily Incremental Changes:
Music is a vital part of my process, but I prefer the "Music of the Morning"—the sound of the coffee grinder, the boiling water, and the city slowly waking up. One of the smallest but most positive changes design brought to my life is the ritual of the 5:00 AM coffee. By designing my own life around this ritual in Takanawa, Tokyo, I have learned that "Good Design" is not just about buildings; it is about designing your time to allow for reflection and empathy.

Design as Social Advancement:
I believe good design is essential for society because it acts as a "Silent Teacher." A well-designed public space, like "Echoes Shinmachi," teaches people how to respect their history and how to interact with one another with more dignity. When a space is designed with "Material Honesty" and "Structural Logic," it creates a sense of trust and stability. Currently, I am working on several urban acupuncture projects in regional Japan, aiming to prove that architecture can revitalize the social fabric of a city.

Where I am now:
I am currently at my studio-café in Takanawa. I am a bridge between the Japan where I was born, the Korea where I explored my dreams, and the Italy where I found my philosophy. For me, design is the ultimate way to harmonize these diverse experiences.

My work culture is defined by "Professional Freedom and Collective Responsibility." Working Style and Partnerships:
Currently, I balance a flexible structure where I act as the creative lead, but I often collaborate with a trusted network of specialized partners—structural engineers, craftsmen, and local stakeholders. Is it easy to work with me? I would say it is inspiring but rigorous. I value open, horizontal communication, but I am uncompromising when it comes to the "Structural Logic" and "Material Honesty" of a project. I look for partners who don't just follow orders, but who possess their own "Sense of Wonder" and can challenge my ideas to make the "Echoes" of the design even stronger.

Hiring and Collaboration Criteria:
When selecting people to work with, I look for "The Eye of an Observer." A good designer must be able to see the invisible layers of a site. I value candidates who have a rich life outside of architecture—people who understand cinema, music, or the simple joy of a good cup of coffee. Technical skills can be taught, but empathy and curiosity are the traits that breathe soul into a building.

The Core Challenges & Responsibilities:
The biggest challenge of our profession today is the speed of consumption. Architecture is a "Slow Art," yet the business world demands fast results. My responsibility is to act as a "Protector of Time." I must ensure that we don't sacrifice longevity for a deadline. This requires the "Resilience" I learned during my 15 years at Nikken Sekkei—the ability to navigate complex regulations and budgets without losing the poetic essence of the initial "Flash."

Essential Characteristics:
A good architect must possess "Humble Authority." You must have the authority to lead a complex project to completion, but the humility to listen to the site, the materials, and the people. If there is one thing that can't be forgotten about my work culture, it is that we design for the person who will be standing in the space 50 years from now.

I believe that the greatest philanthropic contribution an architect can make is to "Restore the Dignity of a Place." My contribution is not just through financial donation, but through the donation of my time, expertise, and the creation of social "hubs."

1. Creating a "Social Living Room":
In my neighborhood of Takanawa, my studio-café serves as a pro-bono contribution to the community’s social fabric. By opening my doors at 5:00 AM, I provide a space where elderly neighbors, busy professionals, and young students can interact without barriers. This is a form of "Social Design"—using my architectural skills to create a safe, welcoming "living room" for a city that is often lonely. It is my way of giving back to the community that fosters my creativity every day.

2. Regional Revitalization (Urban Acupuncture):
I am deeply committed to projects in regional Japan, such as "Echoes Shinmachi." These are often humanitarian in nature because they aim to save dying local identities. I frequently engage in pro-bono consultations for local communities who wish to preserve their historical structures but lack the technical expertise to do so. I believe that artists and architects have a duty to involve themselves in such projects; we are the ones who can visualize a future that respects the past.

3. Supporting the Next Generation:
To support young designers, I actively participate in conferences and design events where I share the "Realities of the Profession." In my own practice, I provide opportunities for young architects and artists by involving them in my collaborative networks, treating them not as assistants, but as partners with a voice. I believe in "Intellectual Philanthropy"—passing on the rigorous logic I learned at Nikken Sekkei and the poetic sensitivity I found in Italy to those who will build the world next.

What I Like About Good Design:
Ultimately, what I love about good design is its democratizing power. A well-designed public space doesn't care about your status; it provides beauty and comfort to everyone equally. To me, philanthropic design means ensuring that high-quality, soulful architecture is not a luxury for the few, but a fundamental right for the community.

Participating in the A’ Design Award was a transformative experience that acted as a bridge between my long career at a major firm and my new journey as an independent architect.

Three Main Benefits of Participating in Design Awards:

Global Validation of Personal Philosophy:
After 15 years at Nikken Sekkei, "Echoes Shinmachi" was my first major independent statement. Winning this award provided me with an immense sense of confidence. It proved that my philosophy of "Material Hybrids" and "Urban Acupuncture" resonates not just in Japan, but on a global stage. This validation is essential for any designer transitioning into a new chapter.

Increased Credibility and New Opportunities:
An international award is a "Universal Language" of quality. It has significantly enhanced my professional credibility, opening doors to new clients and ambitious projects that I might not have reached otherwise. It transforms a local project into a global benchmark.

Refinement of Design Logic:
The process of preparing the submission itself is a powerful exercise. It forces you to look at your work objectively and articulate your "Structural Logic" and "Atmospheric Intent" clearly. This analytical reflection has undoubtedly sharpened my design skills for future projects.

Importance of Design Competitions:
Competitions are vital because they prevent the industry from becoming stagnant. They encourage us to look beyond "business as usual" and strive for excellence. Being named "Designer of the Day" is a truly humbling and exciting honor. It provides a dedicated moment of "Resonance" where my personal story—from the 5:00 AM coffee in Takanawa to the hybrid structures of Kumamoto—is shared with the world. It fuels my passion to continue creating spaces that give something back to time.

I became an architect because I believe the built environment shapes the way people experience time. A good building does not just provide shelter — it gives people a sense of where they are in history, in a city, in a community. That possibility — of architecture as a form of orientation in the world — is what continues to motivate me.Growing up as a Zainichi Korean — a Korean born and raised in Japan — I was always navigating between cultures and identities. Architecture gave me a language that transcended those boundaries. It is universal in a way that culture and nationality are not.

I chose it — though perhaps it also chose me. As a child, I loved drawing lines. I did not fully understand what architecture was, but there was something about the act of marking a boundary between one space and another that felt natural and necessary. Over time, that instinct found its discipline.

LaundryRiceArchitects works across architecture, urbanism, interior design, and graphic design. Our completed projects range from ryokan and hotels to retail spaces, community facilities, and residential work.
What I wish to design more of is public architecture — buildings that belong to everyone. I am also deeply interested in working at the scale of the city: urban regeneration, public space, infrastructure that carries cultural meaning. And I would very much like to participate in the Venice Architecture Biennale one day — not as a visitor, but as a contributor to the conversation.

I would not describe myself as a legend — I am still very much in the middle of the journey. But what I would say to young designers is this: go somewhere unfamiliar. Study somewhere that challenges your assumptions. Live in a city whose history is not your own. The designers who interest me most are those who have been genuinely displaced — who have had to find their footing in an unfamiliar context — because that experience teaches you to listen before you speak. And listening is the most important skill in architecture.

A good designer solves the problem. A great designer understands why the problem exists in the first place — and sometimes realizes that the real problem is different from the one that was presented. Great designers ask questions before they draw lines.

Good design is inevitable. When you encounter it, you feel that it could not have been otherwise — that the form, the material, the proportion are the only possible answer to the particular conditions of that place and time. I evaluate design by asking: does this belong here? Does it make the place more itself, or less?

Good design is not a luxury — it is a form of respect. Respect for the people who will use a space, for the city that will contain it, and for the time that will pass through it. Bad design is expensive in ways that are not immediately visible: it erodes the quality of daily life, it diminishes the identity of places, and it accumulates into cities that no one loves. Investing in good design is investing in the long-term wellbeing of communities.

I would design a public library in a small city — somewhere that has been overlooked by the mainstream of architectural culture. A library is one of the last truly democratic spaces: it belongs to everyone, it asks nothing in return, and it is one of the few places where time slows down. I would design it for the people who need a place to think.

Two things come to mind. The first is a major public building — a cultural institution, a museum, or a civic space — that can serve as a genuine landmark for a community. Architecture at that scale has the power to redefine how a city understands itself.
The second is participation in the Venice Architecture Biennale — simultaneously overseeing both the Japanese Pavilion and the Korean Pavilion, addressing the same theme in the same year, on Italian soil. This is something that only I can do: an architect who carries Japan and Korea within himself, who studied in Italy, returning to that ground to hold both nations in dialogue through architecture. That project does not yet exist, but I intend to make it happen.

Context. Always context. Before I draw a single line, I try to understand the place — its history, its scale, its rhythm, its light. The secret is not to impose an idea onto a site, but to find the idea that is already latent in the site, waiting to be revealed. The building should feel as though it was always meant to be there.

Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo are presences I return to constantly — not as architects specifically, but as thinkers who understood that creativity is inseparable from observation. Da Vinci's sketches remind me that design begins with looking, not drawing.
Beyond individuals, my greatest teachers have been cities, streets, and history itself. The urban fabric of Rome, the layered history of Kyoto, the particular way light falls on an old stone wall — these are the textbooks I return to most often. A city is a record of every decision ever made about how people should live together, and there is no better school of architecture than learning to read that record.

San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane in Rome by Francesco Borromini is a design I return to again and again. In a space smaller than one of the piers of St. Peter's Basilica, Borromini created a universe — a geometry of such complexity and internal logic that it feels simultaneously infinite and intimate. It is proof that greatness in architecture has nothing to do with scale.
The temples and gardens of Kyoto are another constant reference. Not the work of a single designer, but the accumulated intelligence of generations — spaces in which nature, time, and human intention are held in perfect balance. Every visit teaches me something I had not previously understood.

It is too early to say which is my greatest design — I hope it has not yet been built. But among my completed works, Echoes Shinmachi is the one I feel most fully realizes the principles I care about. What makes me believe in it is not the awards it has received, but the way it seems to belong to its place. When I see photographs of it alongside the Tsuboigawa River in spring, with the cherry blossoms and the historic townscape, it does not look like an intrusion. That is the highest compliment I can pay to any building.

Travel. Live somewhere unfamiliar. Spend time in cities that are not your own and try to understand why they feel the way they do. Read widely — not just architecture, but history, philosophy, literature. Draw by hand. Build physical models. Slow down.
I improved most as a designer when I was studying in Milan and had to navigate a culture and a city that were entirely new to me. That disorientation — that sense of having to rebuild your understanding from scratch — is the most valuable educational experience I know.

Perhaps a historian. I am deeply drawn to the way history accumulates in places — the way a city carries the traces of its past in its streets and buildings and public spaces. If I had not found architecture, I think I would have found some other way to study the relationship between time and place.

Design is the act of making decisions in the face of constraints. Every design problem is a set of forces — site, program, budget, culture, history, climate — and design is the discipline of finding a form that resolves those forces in a way that is both necessary and surprising. The best designs feel inevitable and unexpected at the same time.

My family has been the constant foundation. Beyond that, the mentors and colleagues I encountered at Nikken Sekkei over 14 years gave me the technical discipline and professional experience that made independent practice possible. And the clients who trusted LaundryRice Architects with their projects in the early years — when the practice was just beginning — made everything possible. Without that trust, there is no work.

Displacement. Every time I have been placed in an unfamiliar context — studying in Seoul as someone raised in Japan, studying in Milan as an Asian student, founding a practice at 44 — I have had to recalibrate my assumptions and rebuild my understanding. That repeated experience of starting over has kept me curious and, I hope, humble.

The most persistent obstacle was identity. As a Zainichi Korean — born in Japan, educated in Korea and Italy, working in Japan — I never fully belonged to any single architectural culture. For a long time, that felt like a disadvantage. It took years to understand that it was, in fact, the source of whatever is distinctive about my work.

With restraint. The work should speak first. Too many designers over-explain — they use language to compensate for what the design does not achieve on its own. I prefer presentations that are spare and precise: a few well-chosen images, a clear statement of the problem, and a honest account of the solution. Let the audience complete the meaning.

We have several projects currently in development across Japan, and we are beginning to extend our practice into Korea. I am also continuing my doctoral research at Kyoto University on the theme of earth and architecture — a research direction that I expect will increasingly influence the material and philosophical dimensions of our built work. Expect buildings that are more deeply rooted in the ground, in every sense.

To build something that outlasts me — not physically necessarily, but in meaning. A building that continues to generate new experiences and new readings as time passes, that deepens rather than diminishes with age. I also hope, in time, to contribute to architectural education and discourse in a way that helps younger designers find their own path — particularly those who, like me, come from in-between places.

Consistency. People expect that the values expressed in the work remain stable over time — that each new project is recognizably the work of the same mind, even as it responds to a completely different context. That consistency is not style; it is a set of commitments. To place, to material, to craft, to the people who will inhabit the work.

Design shapes the conditions of daily life. The quality of the spaces in which people live, work, gather, and move through the city determines — to a greater degree than is usually acknowledged — the quality of their experience of being alive. Good public design creates conditions for encounter, for rest, for the kind of unplanned interaction that builds community. Bad design does the opposite. In that sense, design is not a luxury but a form of governance.

I am focused on the second and third projects of LaundryRice Architects — work that will follow Echoes Shinmachi and that I want to approach with the same care and deliberateness. The first building established a set of principles; the next ones must deepen them. I am not interested in speed or volume. I am interested in each project being better than the last.
I am also excited about my doctoral research at Kyoto University on the theme of earth and architecture — a research direction that I expect will increasingly influence the material and philosophical dimensions of our built work.

Echoes Shinmachi gave me the deepest satisfaction of any project I have completed, because it is the work in which my own philosophy and the client's needs and the character of the place came together most completely. But I also feel a quiet satisfaction about Asaba Coffee in Hitoyoshi — a project in which a flood-damaged historic building was given a new life. The combination of necessity, history, and craft in that project still moves me.

I would like to see a greater valuation of slowness. The design industry — particularly in commercial architecture — is increasingly driven by speed and efficiency, and the result is a proliferation of buildings that are competent but not memorable. Great architecture requires time: time to understand a place, time to develop a concept, time to refine the details. I would like to see clients and developers invest in that time.

I think the most interesting direction is a return to the local — to materials, techniques, and cultural references that are specific to particular places. The homogenization of global architecture over the past decades has produced cities that look increasingly similar. The reaction against that — a renewed interest in craft, in regional material culture, in the specificity of place — is already underway, and I expect it to deepen.

It varies enormously with the scale and complexity of the project. For a smaller retail or interior project, the design phase might take three to six months. For a building like Echoes Shinmachi, the process from initial concept to construction completion spanned approximately two years. What I have learned is that the time spent in the early stages — understanding the site, developing the concept — is never wasted. It always pays back in the quality of the final work.

I start by visiting the site, as many times as necessary, at different times of day and in different weather. I try to understand the rhythm of the place — how light moves through it, how people move through it, what it sounds like, what it smells like. Only after I feel that I understand the site do I begin to draw. The first drawings are always diagrams — not of the building, but of the forces acting on the site.

Listen before you speak. In architecture, this means: understand the place before you impose a form. The best buildings are those that feel as though they were always meant to be there — and that feeling comes from listening.

Great design sets trends. Mediocre design follows them. The designers who have genuinely changed the way we see and inhabit the world were not responding to trends; they were creating new possibilities. And history itself is the greatest source of those possibilities — the buildings and cities that have survived centuries did so because they understood something essential and enduring about human life. Trends are the residue of design, not its source. History is its foundation.

Technology is a tool, not a value. I use it to test ideas and to communicate them to engineers and builders. But the ideas themselves come from looking, thinking, and drawing — activities that are fundamentally human and that no technology can replace. I am wary of designs that are driven by technological possibility rather than spatial and human necessity.

In the early stages, I draw by hand and build physical models. These remain irreplaceable for me as tools for thinking. For technical development, we use CAD and SketchUp. The physicality of model-making — the act of cutting and gluing and holding a small representation of a building in your hands — gives a sense of the work that no screen can provide.

Everything. Color, material, and ambient are not decoration applied to a design — they are the design. The decision to use brick at Echoes Shinmachi was not aesthetic; it was conceptual. The brick was chosen because it could stand in honest dialogue with the historical fabric of Shinmachi, because it ages gracefully, because it carries the mark of the hand that laid it. Every material decision is a statement about time and place.

I wish people would ask: how does this building make you feel about the place it is in? Not: what style is it? Not: how much did it cost? But: does it make you more aware of where you are? Does it make the city feel more like itself? Those are the questions I am trying to answer with every project.

Inevitability. When I encounter a great design, my first thought is: of course. It feels as though it could not have been otherwise. That sense of rightness — of a form that perfectly resolves its conditions — is what I look for, and what I aspire to.

I believe in collaboration, but I am cautious about co-design in the sense of shared authorship at the conceptual level. Architecture requires a clear point of view — a single organizing intelligence that holds the design together. What I value most in collaborators are people with deep technical knowledge who can challenge and strengthen my ideas: structural engineers who understand space, craftsmen who understand material, clients who understand purpose.

The professors at the Politecnico di Milano were formative. One in particular opened my eyes to Zen — speaking about it in the context of Japanese culture and space. The irony was that I, a person raised in Japan, knew almost nothing about it. That conversation sent me back to Japan after graduation with a completely different set of questions about the culture I had grown up in. It changed the direction of my practice before my practice had even begun.

Aldo Rossi's The Architecture of the City fundamentally changed how I think about the relationship between buildings and urban memory. Junichiro Tanizaki's In Praise of Shadows gave me a language for thinking about light, material, and the Japanese spatial sensibility that I had grown up with but never articulated.
And Leonardo da Vinci — not his books, but his sketches. The way he moved between observation and invention, between the human body and the mechanics of water and flight, reminds me that the most important act in design is looking. His sketches are not illustrations of ideas; they are the thinking itself.

Through practice, failure, and observation. The 14 years at Nikken Sekkei gave me a technical foundation that I could not have built any other way — working at the scale of major urban projects, coordinating with engineers and contractors and clients across complex multi-year processes. And founding LaundryRice Architects forced me to develop a different skill: the ability to hold a clear point of view in the absence of institutional support. Both experiences were necessary.

Leonardo da Vinci. Not to ask him about art or science or engineering, but to understand how he held all of those things together — how he moved between observation and invention, between the particular and the universal, without losing the thread. That capacity for synthesis is what I find most inspiring and most difficult.

I do not think of myself as famous. The awards have been meaningful insofar as they have opened doors and created opportunities — but I am more interested in what the next project will teach me than in the recognition the last one received. The awards I care most about are the ones given by peers whose judgment I respect: the recognition that matters most comes from people who understand what you are trying to do.

Color: Blue — in all its depth and variation, from the blue of a winter sky over the sea to the blue of aged indigo fabric.
Place: New York. There is no city in the world that generates the same quality of energy and possibility. Every visit resets my sense of what a city can be.
Food: Sushi and yakitori — one for its precision and restraint, the other for its informality and warmth.
Season: Spring. The cherry blossoms in Japan are a lesson in impermanence that I never tire of.
Thing: My car — a Range Rover Classic. Its design is honest about what it is: a machine built for purpose, without apology.
Brand: Comme des Garçons. Rei Kawakubo's refusal to be legible, her insistence on questioning what clothing can be, is an attitude I recognize and admire.

During my time at the Politecnico di Milano, I had a conversation with one of my professors in his office — a quiet, private exchange that I have never forgotten. He spoke to me about Zen. Not in the context of a lecture or a formal seminar, but simply as something he wanted to share. He spoke about emptiness, about silence, about the particular quality of Japanese space.
I sat there, a person who had grown up in Japan, and realized with genuine embarrassment that I understood almost nothing of what he was describing. I had lived in Japan my entire life and had never truly seen it. An Italian professor, in a room in Milan, gave me Japan.
That conversation was not funny at the time. But it changed everything. It sent me back to Japan after graduation with completely different eyes — searching for something I should have known all along.

A good site visit. There is nothing like arriving at a place and spending time with it — watching the light change, observing how people move through it, feeling the quality of the air. Those visits remind me why I became an architect: not to make objects, but to understand places, and to give them a new layer of meaning.

Not obvious — but perhaps inevitable. I remember loving to draw lines. Not pictures of things, but lines themselves — boundaries, edges, the places where one thing becomes another. I did not know what that instinct was pointing toward. But looking back, it was pointing toward architecture: the discipline of drawing lines that define space, that separate inside from outside, that mark the threshold between one world and another.

In a thousand years, the cities that survive will be those that were built with genuine care for their place — that were designed to belong to a specific landscape and culture, rather than to transcend or ignore it. The buildings that last are always the ones that understood where they were. I think the future of architecture, paradoxically, lies in a deeper engagement with the particular: with specific materials, specific climates, specific histories. The universal is always found in the specific.

I am a Zainichi Korean architect — a Korean born and raised in Japan, educated in Korea and Italy, working in Japan. That in-between position, which was once a source of uncertainty, has become the foundation of my practice. I design from the margins, which gives me a particular kind of clarity about what matters in a place and what does not.I believe that architecture is, above all, an act of listening. Before any line is drawn, a place must be heard — its history, its scale, its light, its rhythm. The buildings I aspire to make are those that feel as though they were always meant to be there: not impositions, but presences. Echoes, in the best sense of the word.I am 48 years old, and I feel that my most important work is still ahead of me. I intend to keep climbing — slowly, deliberately, one step at a time.

After 15 years of leading large-scale urban projects at a major firm, I established my own studio, LaundryRiceArchitects, to pursue a more intimate and profound connection between people, materials, and the environment.

The name "Laundry Rice" reflects my desire to return to the essentials of life—water, nourishment, and the purity of daily rituals. In a world of mass production, my studio functions more like a specialized laboratory or a craftsman’s workshop. We focus on "contextual architecture" that doesn't just occupy a site but emerges from it.

Our studio is intentionally small. This allows me to maintain a "hand-crafted" approach to every detail, from the structural hybridity of concrete and timber to the tactile quality of locally fired bricks. We don't just design buildings; we create spatial experiences that act as a bridge between the historical memory of a city and its future innovation. For us, every project is a unique response to a specific landscape, aiming for a timeless elegance that large-scale corporate architecture often overlooks.

For me, design is the act of "translating the invisible memories of a place into a visible, tactile reality."

Architecture does not exist in a vacuum; every site has its own accumulation of time—historical, cultural, and environmental. To design is to listen to these silent echoes and weave them into a contemporary form. It is not about self-expression or pursuing fleeting trends, but about finding a "justified form" that feels as though it was always meant to be there.

In my practice, design is also a "harmonization of opposites." It is the delicate balance between the heaviness of concrete and the warmth of timber, or the rugged texture of handmade bricks and the sharp transparency of glass. When these contrasting elements coexist through rigorous logic and craftsmanship, design transcends mere aesthetics and becomes an enduring "vessel" for human life and community.

Ultimately, design for me is a bridge. It bridges the history of a city with the lives of its future inhabitants, ensuring that the essence of a place continues to resonate through time.

I am most drawn to projects that require "Surgical Intervention into Historical Contexts."

I find the greatest creative joy in designing works that sit within complex urban fabrics—sites where history is still breathing, but modern innovation is needed to revitalize them. Projects like "Echoes Shinmachi," where I can integrate the heavy, traditional presence of masonry with light, contemporary timber structures, are particularly rewarding.

I also have a deep passion for "Public-facing Private Architecture." These are mixed-use buildings or private residences that do not isolate themselves from the city but instead contribute to the streetscape. I love designing spaces that facilitate "Seasonal Engagement"—architecture that opens up to a river or a mountain, allowing the inhabitants to feel the flow of time and nature through terraces and light.

Ultimately, I enjoy the challenge of "Material Hybridity." Designing spaces where contrasting materials—concrete, wood, and brick—must harmonize through precise engineering is where my expertise from years at a large firm meets my soul as an independent architect.

"Echoes Shinmachi" is currently my most significant work, as it represents my independence and my architectural manifesto. It is a mixed-use building in Kumamoto that bridges historical memory with contemporary innovation. My favorite aspect is the "Structural Hybridity"—the way the heavy, locally fired brickwork on the lower levels transitions into a light, transparent timber structure above. It embodies the "Echoes" of the city’s past while projecting a vision for its future.

The first significant project I was involved in during my 15-year tenure at Nikken Sekkei was a large-scale urban development in Japan. It was a complex, high-rise project that required balancing intricate structural engineering with urban functional requirements.

Working on such a massive scale taught me the importance of "Logic" and "System" in architecture. While those early corporate projects were about managing the vast energy of a city, they laid the technical foundation that allows me today to execute complex hybrid structures—like the concrete and timber mix in "Echoes Shinmachi"—with absolute precision. Transitioning from designing city-scale landmarks to boutique, contextual architecture has allowed me to bring that high-level technical expertise to a more human, intimate scale.

My architectural language is built upon the dialogue between Concrete, Timber, and Brick. I am particularly fond of locally fired bricks and exposed concrete. These materials possess a "tactile honesty"—they age gracefully and reflect the passage of time on their surfaces. For me, the most important "technology" is the Hybrid Structural System. By integrating the compressive strength of reinforced concrete with the carbon-sequestration and sensory warmth of timber, I can create spaces that are both structurally rigorous and emotionally inviting.

Furthermore, as a "Community Architect" who operates a café in Tokyo, I view the "Physical Space itself" as my most vital platform. While digital tools are essential for precision, the ultimate technology is the one that facilitates human connection. I focus on designing "Active Envelopes"—façades and terraces that use material contrasts to manage light, shadow, and social interaction, bridging the historical context of a site with the vibrant pulse of modern life.

I feel the most creative during two contrasting moments: Observation and Deep Solitude.

The first occurs in the bustling environment of the café I run in Takanawa. While serving coffee and observing how people move, interact, and settle into a space, I gain sudden insights into "Social Architecture." Seeing the light change through the window or a customer finding comfort in a specific corner provides me with a living laboratory of human behavior. This is where my dynamic inspiration comes from.

The second moment is during "Dialogue with the Site." When I stand alone on a silent project site—like the riverfront of Shinmachi before construction began—and listen to the "Echoes" of its history. In that deep silence, I feel a rush of creativity as I begin to visualize how modern materials can weave into the invisible layers of the past. For me, creativity is the spark that happens when the reality of daily life meets the memories of a place.

I focus on the "Calibration of Scales"—simultaneously managing the macro impact on the city and the micro-tactile experience of the inhabitant.

Firstly, I am obsessed with "Atmospheric Comfort." As a community architect who runs a café, I understand that the success of a building is measured by how long people want to linger in it. I focus intensely on how natural light interacts with materials—how sunlight warms a timber beam or creates shadows on a brick wall. These subtle atmospheric qualities define the emotional soul of a project.

Secondly, I focus on "Structural Integrity as Ornament." I do not believe in adding decoration for the sake of it. Instead, I focus on making the hybrid structure itself beautiful. The junction where concrete meets wood, or where glass meets brick, must be executed with surgical precision. To me, the most beautiful aspect of a design is its "Honesty"—where the way a building stands is the very thing that makes it aesthetically profound.

Designing is a journey through a "Spectrum of Intensity." Initially, there is a sense of profound responsibility, bordering on a healthy tension. When I begin to sketch, I feel the weight of the city's history and the future lives of the inhabitants on my shoulders. It is a rigorous, logical struggle to find the right answer.

However, as the hybrid structure starts to take shape in my mind, that tension transforms into a quiet excitement. Especially now, as I run a café in Takanawa, my emotions are more deeply rooted in empathy. I feel a warm anticipation, imagining the sound of footsteps on the timber floor or the way a person will feel the texture of the brick wall.

It is a cycle of intellectual rigor and emotional affection. I feel like a translator who is nervous about getting the words right, but ultimately exhilarated when the "story" of the space begins to resonate with the soul of the place.

The realization of a design brings a profound sense of "Humble Relief" followed by "Curious Joy."

When the scaffolding finally comes down and the hybrid structure stands exposed to the city, my first emotion is a deep sense of relief—that the logical "translations" I made from the site's history have successfully manifested into physical reality. It is the moment the "Echoes" I heard become audible to everyone.

But the most rewarding emotion comes later, through Observation. Because I run a café in Takanawa, I am acutely sensitive to how people inhabit a space. When I see a person instinctively touch the rough texture of the brick wall, or see a community gathering in a space I designed, I feel a quiet, enduring joy. It is the feeling that the building is no longer "mine"—it has begun its own life as a member of the city. To see my architecture becoming a backdrop for someone else's daily life is the ultimate emotional reward.

I believe a design is successful only when it achieves "Social Longevity through Emotional Attachment."

A building should not be judged as successful on the day of its opening. True success is revealed five or ten years later—when the materials have aged, the trees have grown, and the community has fully embraced the space as their own. As a "Community Architect" who sees daily interactions in my café, I know that a space is successful when people feel an instinctive "permission" to belong there.

From a technical standpoint, success is the "Precision of the Hybrid." When contrasting materials like RC and timber are joined so seamlessly that the structure feels like a single, living organism, the design achieves a timeless quality. If a building can age gracefully without losing its structural logic, and if it continues to evoke a sense of pride in the local community, then—and only then—can we call it a successful design.

When I judge a design, I look for "Structural Integrity" and "Body-scaled Comfort."

The first thing I ask is: "Is the logic of the building honest?" I check if the materials and structure are working together naturally or if they are just decorative masks. A good design has a clear, unforced reason for its form. My 15 years at a major firm taught me to see through superficial aesthetics to find the core engineering truth.

Secondly, I judge a space by its "Atmospheric Hospitality." Running a café in Takanawa has heightened my sensitivity to the human scale. I consider how the light hits a surface or how a material feels to the touch. If a design looks beautiful in a photograph but feels cold or intimidating to a human body, I cannot call it good. For me, excellent design must possess a "kindness" that welcomes people while maintaining a rigorous intellectual backbone.

I believe an architect’s responsibility is to design "Socially Sustainable Ecosystems" rather than just static objects.

Regarding the environment, our responsibility is to balance durability with low carbon impact. In "Echoes Shinmachi," I utilized a timber-concrete hybrid structure. By using wood for the upper floors, we sequestrate carbon, while the concrete and brick base ensures the building survives for generations. True environmental responsibility isn't about short-term energy ratings; it’s about creating architecture that remains functional and beautiful for over a century.

Regarding society, as a "Community Architect" who runs a café in Tokyo, I believe our duty is to prevent urban loneliness. Architecture should act as a "Third Place"—a harbor where diverse people can feel a sense of belonging. Our responsibility is to listen to the "Echoes" of the land and translate them into spaces that foster local pride and human connection. If a building is loved by its community, it will be cared for and preserved. That "Emotional Durability" is the ultimate responsibility we owe to our future society.

I believe the design field is evolving from a "Functionalism-driven" era to an "Experience and Context-driven" era. In the past, architecture was often judged by efficiency and iconic forms. However, the future of design lies in its ability to foster human relationships and environmental synergy.

As AI and automated construction become more prevalent, the role of the architect will shift from being a "Form-maker" to a "Curator of Invisible Contexts." Technology can calculate structural efficiency, but it cannot yet feel the "Echoes" of a city's history or understand the subtle hospitality required in a neighborhood café.

The future of design is "High-Tech, High-Touch." By this, I mean using advanced engineering—like the timber-concrete hybrid systems I implement—to achieve sustainability, while simultaneously grounding the design in tactile, analog experiences that resonate with the human soul. Design will no longer be about creating "new objects" in isolation, but about weaving "living networks" that connect people back to their heritage and to each other.

My most recent and ongoing exhibition is the A' Design Award Winners' Exhibition in Italy, where "Echoes Shinmachi" is being introduced to a global audience. For me, however, architecture itself is a "Permanent Public Exhibition." "Echoes Shinmachi" in Kumamoto functions as a living exhibit that changes with the light and the seasons, inviting passersby to experience the dialogue between brick and timber every day.

As for my next exhibition, I am planning a more intimate, curated showcase at my own design studio and café in Takanawa, Tokyo. Rather than a traditional gallery showing, I want to create an immersive experience that combines architectural drawings and models with the actual hospitality of the café. I hope to hold this in the near future to bridge the gap between professional architectural discourse and the local community, showing how "Community Architecture" can be realized in daily life.

My inspiration comes from the "Interweaving of Distant Memories and Daily Life."

First, I draw heavily from the Atmosphere of Cities. My time studying at the Politecnico di Milano taught me to read the "Invisible Layers" of history in old masonry and cobblestones. I feed my creativity by traveling to places where time has accumulated gracefully. I look at how shadows fall on ancient walls and how materials like stone and wood have aged together for centuries.

Second, my inspiration is fueled by "The Hospitality of the Moment." Running a café in Takanawa is a vital source of creativity for me. Observing how a customer reacts to the warmth of a timber table or how the morning light filters through a window provides me with "Body-scaled Insights" that no textbook can offer.

Finally, I am inspired by the "Genius Loci" (the spirit of the place). For "Echoes Shinmachi," the inspiration was the river and the historical merchant district of Kumamoto. I listen to the "Echoes" of the site—the silent sounds of the past—and translate them into a structural hybrid that connects the past to the future. For me, creativity is not about creating something from nothing, but about "finding the hidden resonance" already present in the environment.

I describe my design style as "Contemporary Contextualism." This style is not about imitating the past, but about reinterpreting the "Echoes" of a site through the lens of modern logic. I was driven to explore this approach after realizing that many modern buildings feel "placeless"—they could exist anywhere. My 15 years at a major firm gave me the technical power to build anything, but my studies in Milan and my life as a café owner in Takanawa taught me that architecture must have a "soul" rooted in its specific location.

The main characteristics of my style are:

Material Hybridity: Harmonizing contrasting materials like the weight of brick and concrete with the lightness of timber.

Atmospheric Hospitality: Designing spaces that feel welcoming and "human-scaled," a sensitivity I've honed through daily interactions at my café.

Structural Honesty: Every form has a structural reason; I do not add decoration that doesn't serve a purpose.

My approach to design is "Surgical and Meditative." I begin by spending time on the site, listening to its silent history. I then function as a "Translator," weaving those historical layers into a contemporary structural hybrid. My goal is to create buildings that feel new yet somehow "familiar," as if they have always belonged to the landscape.

I live and work in Takanawa, Tokyo, a district where historical atmosphere meets modern urban life. Here, I operate my architectural studio alongside a neighborhood café. This daily life as a "Community Architect" is crucial; it allows me to observe the unique rhythm of Japanese social interaction firsthand.

Cultural Heritage:
The cultural heritage of Japan profoundly affects my work, but not in a decorative sense. I am inspired by the concept of "Ma" (space/interval) and "Engawa" (intermediate space). My time in Milan taught me to appreciate masonry, but my Japanese roots drive me to find how that "heaviness" can coexist with the "lightness" of timber. I see my designs as a bridge between the European tradition of permanence and the Japanese tradition of ephemeral beauty and material honesty.

Pros and Cons:

Pros: Living in Japan gives me access to extraordinary craftsmanship. The technical precision of Japanese carpenters and contractors is a major advantage when executing complex "Material Hybrids" like the ones seen in "Echoes Shinmachi." There is a shared cultural respect for the "soul of the material."

Cons: The strict building codes and earthquake regulations in Japan are often seen as constraints. However, I view them as a creative catalyst. These "cons" forced me to innovate the timber-concrete hybrid system, proving that safety and rigorous engineering can be transformed into a new architectural aesthetic.

My approach to working with companies is a blend of high-level corporate professionalism and boutique-style creative agility.

Having spent 15 years at Nikken Sekkei, I am deeply familiar with the complexities of corporate decision-making and large-scale project management. I speak the "corporate language" of schedules, budgets, and technical feasibility. However, as an independent studio, I offer companies a more direct and intimate partnership. I don't just provide a design; I act as a strategic partner who translates a company's brand values into a physical, enduring environment.

Furthermore, my unique position as a café operator allows me to offer companies "lived insights." When I work with developers or commercial clients, I bring practical knowledge of hospitality and community management. I work collaboratively to ensure that the project is not only an architectural landmark but also a functional, beloved space that generates long-term social and economic value. I believe the best corporate projects result from a "shared vision" where I help the client discover the hidden potential of their site and their brand.

My primary suggestion to companies is to view a designer not as a service provider, but as a "Co-author of the Brand Experience." Architecture is a long-term investment that shapes the public perception of a company for decades.

How to select a good designer:

Look beyond the Portfolio: Don't just look for a signature style. Look for a designer who demonstrates "Contextual Intelligence"—the ability to analyze the site’s history, the neighborhood's needs, and the company's future goals to create something unique.

Test the Dialogue: A good designer should be an excellent listener. During the selection process, notice if they ask deep questions about your long-term vision and social impact, rather than just talking about aesthetics.

Operational Insight: Select a designer who understands how spaces are actually used after completion. Because I operate a café myself, I always advise clients that "Design ends at completion, but Life begins after." A designer who can envision the "Afterlife of the Building" will save the company from future operational friction.

The most successful collaborations happen when a company provides a clear "Philosophy" rather than a rigid "Requirement List," allowing the designer the creative freedom to translate that philosophy into a profound spatial reality.

My design process is a three-stage journey that moves from Abstract Echoes to Concrete Reality.

1. Contextual Archaeology:
I begin every project by "listening" to the site. This isn't just about surveying land; it's an archaeological search for the site's history and social memory. For "Echoes Shinmachi," this meant studying the Edo-period merchant houses of Kumamoto and the rhythm of the nearby river. I don't draw anything until I feel the "Genius Loci" (the spirit of the place).

2. Hybrid Synthesis:
Next, I move to structural logic. I explore how to translate these historical memories into a modern hybrid system. I spend a lot of time on Material Dialogue—sketching the junctions where heavy materials like brick and concrete meet light timber. This is where my 15 years of technical experience ensures that the poetry of the design is supported by rigorous engineering.

3. Body-Scaled Calibration:
Finally, I refine the space through the lens of a Community Architect. I imagine the daily life within the building as if I were managing it like my café in Takanawa. How does the light touch the table? Is the scale of the entrance welcoming? I call this "Hospitality Testing." I use physical models and light simulations to ensure that the final architecture doesn't just look good in photos, but feels profoundly right to the human body.

Classic Moka Express: A daily essential that pays tribute to my years in Milan. It represents a masterpiece of functional beauty and serves as the bridge to my morning ritual and my life as a café owner.

Hans J. Wegner’s Y-Chair : I admire its perfect balance of organic curves and structural logic. It is a timeless example of how timber can be crafted into an ergonomic and sculptural form.

Hasami-yaki Ceramic Mugs: I love the "everyday honesty" of Hasami porcelain. Its clean lines and tactile durability reflect my philosophy of designing items that are meant to be used and loved in daily life.

MacBook Pro: My primary tool for translating abstract "echoes" into precise architectural reality. I value its minimalist design, where the high-performance technology is housed in a simple, honest aluminum shell.

Nike Air Max 97: I am fascinated by its futuristic, layered ripples—originally inspired by Japanese high-speed trains. It represents a perfect fusion of heritage and innovation, echoing my own approach to "layered" architecture and urban movement.

My day starts exceptionally early at 4:30 AM. By 5:00 AM, I am already at my studio-cum-café in Takanawa, opening the doors to the neighborhood. This early hour is magical; I serve freshly ground coffee to local residents and morning strollers. These conversations at dawn are where I truly function as a "Community Architect," absorbing the raw, honest needs of the people and the city before the world fully wakes up.

At 7:00 AM, I briefly close the shop and return home to have breakfast with my family. This interlude is vital for grounding myself.

I return to the studio at 9:30 AM to begin my architectural practice. This is when I translate the "human echoes" I gathered in the early morning into technical precision on my MacBook. Whether I am refining the hybrid structures of "Echoes Shinmachi" or conceptualizing new projects, the focus is on disciplined creativity. My professional day concludes at 5:00 PM, allowing me to maintain a healthy rhythm between my social responsibilities, my creative passion, and my personal life.

My advice to the next generation of designers is captured in two principles: "Build a Rigorous Foundation" and "Live Among the Echoes."

First, do not rush to find your "original style." Spend your early years mastering the logic of construction and materials. My 15 years at a large firm were not a detour; they provided me with the technical "bones" that allow my creative spirit to fly today. Without a deep understanding of how a brick sits on concrete or how wood breathes, your design remains a mere drawing. Precision is the language of freedom.

Second, get out of the studio. Architecture is not a digital product; it is a vessel for human life. My life running a café in Takanawa starting at 5:00 AM has taught me more about "human scale" than any textbook. Go to the site, talk to the residents, and listen to the silent history of the land.

True innovation doesn't come from a computer screen, but from the intersection of rigorous engineering and deep human empathy. Design buildings that you would want to walk past every morning, and that you would want to grow old with.

Positives:
The greatest reward is the "Longevity of Impact." As a designer, your thoughts and sketches eventually manifest into physical structures that outlive you. When I see people gathering in a space I designed, or when I see the morning light hitting the hybrid structure of "Echoes Shinmachi" just as I imagined, it is a profound emotional fulfillment. Also, being a "Community Architect" gives me the privilege of seeing the immediate, daily smiles of people in my café—it’s a rare position where you can bridge high-level engineering with intimate human happiness.

Negatives:
The primary challenge is the "Weight of Responsibility." Architecture is an expensive, permanent intervention into a city. A mistake in logic or a lack of empathy can negatively affect a neighborhood for generations. There is also the constant struggle between creative ideals and pragmatic constraints—budgets, strict regulations, and technical hurdles. However, I have learned that these "negatives" are actually the fuel for innovation. Without the friction of reality, design becomes superficial. Dealing with these challenges is what gives an architect’s work its "bones" and character.

My golden rule is the philosophical core I brought back from my studies in Italy: "Un’architettura è una piccola città, una città è una grande architettura." (Architecture is a small city; a city is a large architecture.)

This principle dictates my entire approach. When I design a building, I don't see it as an isolated object, but as a "Small City"—a place where diverse human interactions, history, and light should flow as they do in a public square. Conversely, when I manage my café in Takanawa or walk through the streets, I view the urban fabric as a "Large Architecture" that requires structural logic and hospitality.

To me, design is the act of harmonizing these two scales. Whether it is a small detail of a timber joint or a large-scale hybrid structure, my rule is to ensure that the "Echoes" of the city are present within the building, and the order of the architecture contributes to the life of the city.

The most important skill for a designer is "The Art of Traveling."

By traveling, I don’t mean simple sightseeing. I mean the ability to physically displace oneself into different cultures, climates, and histories to experience "Atmospheric Intelligence." Architecture cannot be fully understood through a screen or a textbook. You must feel the weight of a stone wall in Italy, the humidity of a Japanese summer, and the way people gather in a foreign square. These experiences become a "Physical Library" within your body. For me, traveling is the skill of "Active Observation"—learning to see the hidden logic behind different ways of living.

Ultimately, design is the ability to translate those global "Echoes" into local reality. A designer who travels well is a designer who can sympathize with diverse human emotions and create spaces that are truly universal yet deeply rooted in their place.

My toolbox is defined by "The Precision of the Line" and "The Logic of the Digital."

STAEDTLER Pigment Liner (0.3mm): This is my most trusted analog tool. I prefer the 0.3mm tip because it demands a balance between delicacy and decisiveness. Unlike a pencil, an ink line cannot be easily erased; it forces me to be responsible for every stroke I commit to paper. It is the tool I use to capture the first "Echoes" of a project, translating fleeting thoughts into permanent marks.

MacBook: The MacBook is my primary engine for structural synthesis. It is where the analog sketches are tested against the rigorous laws of engineering and 3D modeling. I value the seamless interface of the Mac, which allows me to move fluidly between complex technical data and the aesthetic refinement of the hybrid structures I create.

These two tools represent the two halves of my brain: the artist who listens to the land, and the engineer who builds for the future.

My time management is rooted in the discipline of "Strategic Rhythms." To prevent the creative process from becoming overwhelming, I strictly divide my day into two distinct phases.

The first phase begins at 4:30 AM. From then until the world fully wakes up, I dedicate myself to Deep Work. The quietness of the dawn, combined with the aroma of the first coffee at my café, provides a meditative environment where I can focus on complex structural logic and conceptual sketching without interruption. By starting at 5:00 AM, I gain a sense of "time abundance" that keeps stress at bay.

The second phase is socially integrated time. During café hours and office hours until 5:00 PM, I embrace the natural flow of the community. I don't see conversations with neighbors or team meetings as "time-consuming" interruptions; instead, I view them as essential data-gathering.

By maintaining a rigorous 5:00 PM finish, I force myself to be decisive. I’ve found that creativity thrives under a well-managed boundary. This rhythm ensures that I am not just "busy," but consistently "productive" and "present" for both my projects and my community.

I believe that the core of a design is born in a single, decisive moment. In my experience, a great idea doesn't come from long, agonizing hours of contemplation. Instead, it arrives like a "Flash"—a sudden resonance between the site’s history and my own intuition. For projects like the one in Nagasaki, the essential "answer" appeared almost instantly. This moment is the culmination of all my "Travels" and "Daily Observations" at the café; it is as if the accumulated echoes suddenly find their voice.

However, translating that one-second flash into a physical reality is where the time is spent. It takes months of rigorous detail design and years of construction to ensure that the initial spark is not lost. We spend a long time on the precision of the hybrid joints and the texture of the materials to protect that original "instant" idea.

So, while the soul of the building is created in a heartbeat, its body requires a long, disciplined journey to be realized.

The question I am asked most frequently is: "Why do you operate a café while practicing high-level architecture?"

To many, it seems like a contradiction to balance complex hybrid engineering with the daily task of serving coffee. However, my answer is always the same: "To keep my senses grounded in the human scale." In a large firm, you often design from a "bird's-eye view," looking down at models and CAD screens. By running a café in Takanawa, I am forced to look at space from a "worm's-eye view"—from the perspective of a person sitting in a chair, touching a table, and interacting with others. People ask if it’s a hobby, but I tell them it is my most rigorous form of architectural research. It ensures that when I have that "instant flash" of a design idea, it is always rooted in the reality of human comfort and social connection.

My most significant professional experience was my involvement in the Kumamoto Station Building project during my time at Nikken Sekkei.

This project was a masterclass in understanding the "Urban Scale." As one of the most important gateways to the city, it required more than just architectural design; it demanded a deep synthesis of transport infrastructure, commercial vitality, and public openness. Navigating the immense complexity of this project taught me how a building must breathe with the city and respond to the movement of thousands of people. It was here that I truly understood the phrase, "A city is a large architecture."

Crucially, this experience became the spiritual foundation for "Echoes Shinmachi." Although the scale changed from a massive transit hub to a boutique residential/commercial building, the fundamental challenge remained the same: How do we create a new landmark that respects the historical continuity of Kumamoto? The lessons in structural integrity, material honesty, and community impact that I learned at the station building are the very "bones" that support my independent work today. To me, the station and the house are two ends of the same thread—both are attempts to listen to the echoes of the city and translate them into a future-facing reality.

My career as an independent architect is still in its early chapters, but I have been incredibly fortunate in my partnerships. My most significant client is Kosugi Fudosan, a company with a visionary leadership that took a chance on my then-unproven independent studio.

They didn't just want a conventional developer-led building; they were looking for a way to honor the historical context of Kumamoto. Our collaboration on "Echoes Shinmachi" was a leap of faith for them, and winning the A' Design Award with this debut project was the ultimate validation of their trust in my "Material Hybrid" philosophy.

Currently, my clients range from professional developers to individuals seeking thoughtful renovations. Whether it is a large-scale new build or a delicate renewal of an existing house, my clients are those who seek more than just "efficiency." They are people who value the "Echoes" of a place and want to create a landmark of memory. I am deeply committed to growing alongside my clients, proving that even a small, dedicated studio can deliver world-class innovation when there is a shared vision.

The design work I enjoy most is the "Dialogue between Eras." I am naturally drawn to projects that involve complex constraints—whether it is a new build in a historic district like "Echoes Shinmachi" or a renovation of an existing structure. For me, starting from a completely blank canvas is less interesting than working with "Existing Echoes." I find immense joy in the intellectual challenge of layering a new, modern structure onto an old history. In renovation work, I enjoy the silent conversation with the original architect; I look for ways to respect their initial intent while injecting a contemporary "hybrid" logic that makes the space relevant for today’s community.

Ultimately, I enjoy creating "Intermediate Spaces"—places that are neither purely private nor purely public. Inspired by my daily life at my café, I am most passionate about designs that encourage people to linger, talk, and feel a sense of belonging. The "difficulty" of blending different materials, scales, and time periods is exactly what makes the process fulfilling. To see a once-silent site or a neglected building become a vibrant part of the city again is my greatest reward as an architect.

My future plan is to evolve from creating "Individual Echoes" to orchestrating "Urban Symphonies."

Winning an award with my debut project has set a high benchmark, but for me, it is just the first step in a lifelong experiment. My next goal is to deepen my exploration of Material Hybrids and apply them to a wider variety of contexts—including more complex renovation projects and public spaces. I want to prove that the intimacy and historical sensitivity I brought to "Echoes Shinmachi" can be scaled to revitalize entire streetscapes.

In Takanawa, I will continue to bridge the gap between my architectural studio and my café, using that daily human interaction to fuel new design concepts. In Kumamoto and other regional cities, I aim to be a partner for those who want to reclaim their city’s identity through thoughtful, enduring architecture.

What’s next for me is not necessarily "bigger" projects, but "deeper" ones. I want to create a series of works that, like the layers of my favorite Air Max 97, stack history, technology, and human life into a beautiful, functional future. I am ready to listen to the next "Echo" and translate it into the next landmark of memory.

The core of every design—the initial "Flash" of inspiration and the underlying philosophy—always originates from myself. I believe that for a project to have a soul, it must first pass through a single, clear vision. I develop the fundamental "Echoes" and the primary structural logic as an individual creator.

However, architecture is a collaborative art. To translate that single vision into a complex reality, I work with a highly specialized team of experts. This includes structural engineers who help refine my "Material Hybrids," skilled craftsmen who understand the honesty of brick and timber, and the project team at my studio.

I see myself as a "Conductor" of an orchestra. While the composition starts in my head, the final performance requires every member of the team to contribute their technical mastery. My experience in a large firm taught me the power of collective intelligence, and I carry that into my independent practice to ensure that my personal vision is supported by the highest level of professional collaboration.

Currently, I am developing several projects that extend the philosophy of "Echoes." One of the most exciting works-in-progress is a renovation and extension of a historical warehouse (Kura) in a regional city in Japan.

Building on the success of "Echoes Shinmachi," I am exploring how to insert a modern timber-steel hybrid skeleton into a centuries-old masonry shell. This project is a literal dialogue across time—reinforcing the fragile history with contemporary engineering while preserving the atmospheric soul of the original space.

I am also working on a community-focused commercial space that integrates my experience as a café owner. The design focuses on "Intermediate Spaces" that invite the public in, blurring the lines between the street and the interior. For me, these works-in-progress are not just buildings, but experiments in "Urban Acupuncture"—small, high-quality interventions designed to stimulate the surrounding neighborhood and awaken the sleeping history of the site. I look forward to revealing how these "New Echoes" will contribute to the city’s evolving symphony.

I am always open to new dialogues, whether they are about potential projects, collaborations, or simply sharing a passion for architecture and community.

Website: [Your Website URL - e.g., www.hyunsunpark.com]

Email: [Your Email Address]

Instagram: [Your Instagram Handle - if applicable]

For those who are in Tokyo, you can also find me at my studio-cum-café in Takanawa. I believe that the best architectural discussions often happen over a cup of coffee. If you wish to experience the "human scale" of my work firsthand, please feel free to visit. Whether through a digital message or a face-to-face conversation in the early morning light, I look forward to hearing the "Echoes" you would like to bring to life.

If there is one thing I would like to add, it is a message to the next generation of creators: "Trust the time you spend outside of the studio."

In today's digital age, we are often pressured to produce results quickly. But as I have experienced through my daily life at the café and my travels, the most profound architectural insights come from the moments when you are not "designing" in the traditional sense. They come from the taste of a morning coffee, the way a neighbor describes their childhood, or the quiet strength of an old stone wall.

Architecture is a slow art. It is the act of gifting something to a future that we may not even see. Whether you are working at a global firm like Nikken Sekkei or running a small independent studio, never lose that "Sense of Wonder" for the human experience. My journey from Milan to Tokyo, and from large-scale towers to the "Echoes" of Kumamoto, has taught me that the smallest detail, if crafted with honesty, can resonate as loudly as the tallest skyscraper.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who has been a part of this journey—my clients, my team, and the people of Takanawa and Kumamoto. Let’s continue to create spaces that don’t just take up room, but give something back to time.