Summer Issue Cover Story: How Hikari Mori Is Reimagining Japanese Living Through a Historic Kominka

Set in Chiba Prefecture, a 150-year-old kominka once built for a village leader has become the center of a deeply personal and evolving project for Hikari Mori. Drawn to the property’s layered history and quiet presence, she began restoring the estate as both a home and what she describes as a “laboratory of living”—a space to explore how architecture, craft, and daily life can shape a more thoughtful way of being. Over several years, the process has brought her into close collaboration with artisans across Japan, from carpenters to lacquer specialists, revealing the time, care, and collective knowledge embedded in traditional making.            

This sensibility extends into tefutefu, the platform Hikari Mori co-founded to examine contemporary interpretations of Japanese living aesthetics. Through exhibitions, spatial design, and ongoing research, Hikari Mori connects inherited cultural practices with present-day life, emphasizing beauty not as surface, but as something experienced through materials, rituals, and time. As she moves from modeling into a more expansive creative role, her work increasingly centers on how environments—both built and lived—can open new ways of seeing, feeling, and understanding the world.

Hikari Mori Discovering the Kominka

WHITEWALL: You’ve been working on the renovation of your 150-year-old kominka in Chiba Prefecture for several years now. Do you remember what initially drew you to this particular house, and what it stirred in you emotionally at the beginning?

HIKARI MORI: This shōya farmhouse was built in 1869 (Meiji 2) by the shōya—the village leader—and is a traditional rural residence of this region. To secure water, the site is positioned with a mountain to the north and faces south. At its entrance stands a nagaya-mon, a gatehouse that connects the outer landscape with the inner world of the home. The nagaya-mon was thoughtfully designed as an integral part of daily life: it stored important goods, housed cattle, and even contained a tatami room with a tokonoma alcove to welcome guests.

With the nagaya-mon as its central presence, the estate also includes kura storehouses, the main house, what was once the rear mountain now turned into cultivated fields, a carefully considered well designed around the natural flow of water, and a Japanese garden that extends seamlessly from the engawa veranda. Countless expressions of Japanese aesthetics are embedded throughout the property—treasures that offer profound hints about how to live beautifully.

Because no one had lived here for a long time, sunlight was blocked by overgrown trees, the flow of water had stagnated, and there was a certain shadowy atmosphere. And yet, as I continued to visit, I began to understand the person who built it—through the architecture and the objects that remained. With each visit, I felt myself drawn in more deeply.

I was 29 when I purchased it. At that time, I did not know what the future would hold, nor where my own life would lead. But I felt a quiet confidence that here—on this land—I could conduct experiments in living. I believed I could learn from artisans about beautiful ways of being, receive insights, and embody them in my own life.

After spending my twenties working as a fashion model, I was ready to step into the next chapter. To refine my sense of beauty, I felt I needed to live closer to nature—to create a laboratory of living where I could learn from architecture, from tools of daily life, and from art, and in doing so deepen my spirituality.

This house was also built at the dawn of a transformative era in Japan—when the long period of Edo isolation was ending and the country was beginning to actively absorb new influences from Europe. It was a time of profound cultural shift in clothing, food, and shelter. As a shōya, the head of the village, the original owner managed twenty servants, collected taxes, and held the trust of the community. I felt a desire to inherit his spirit—to carry forward his sense of responsibility and vision. I felt that encountering this house had meaning.

Preservation, Craft, and the Meaning of Restoration

WW: Throughout the renovation, you’ve made deliberate design choices rooted in Japanese architecture and craftsmanship. How did you decide when to preserve, when to restore, and when to reinterpret?

HM: Before beginning work on the house, I engaged in many conversations with experts from a wide range of fields. I learned that this foundational stage—what I call “Chapter 0”—is an essential period of dialogue. If you rush through this phase, you risk losing sight of what truly matters. The meaning—the roots—can become weak, the core vision fragmented, and in the worst case, the architecture itself can be compromised.

The first priority was building trust with local builders and craftsmen. When you gather one hundred people, you will find one hundred different answers, and many decisions do not have a clearly defined “correct” solution. In such moments, the opinions of the carpenters—who listen directly to the voice of the materials and the structure on site—are invaluable.

Japan’s abundant natural environment also means living alongside natural disasters. This house has stood strong for over 150 years, and if we hope to preserve it for future generations, we must carefully decide—within a realistic budget—what truly needs to be repaired and reinforced.

We were fortunate that a construction company trusted by the local community agreed to take on the project. They worked on traditional restoration methods that do not rely on metal nails, and plaster artisans created earthen walls using soil sourced from the land itself. Actively using local materials is not only respectful—it is also one of the reasons such architecture endures. Beyond the structural work, I was deeply conscious of ensuring that the exterior harmonized with the surrounding landscape. The meaning embedded in this region’s climate and the scenery cultivated by its people over generations is reflected in the architecture. Rather than disrupting that continuity, I sought to preserve and honor it.

WW: This project has taken you across Japan, working closely with artisans and craftsmen. What has surprised you most about those collaborations, and how have they shaped your understanding of material, time, and labor?

HM: I was particularly surprised by the highly specialized division of labor within Japanese craftsmanship. Take lacquerware, for example—urushi—which is sometimes even translated as “Japan.” The process varies by region, but many different specialists are involved: those who cut the wood, those who harvest the lacquer sap, the kijishi who shape the wooden base, the craftsmen who apply the undercoating layers, and finally the artisans responsible for the finishing coats of lacquer.

So many craftsmen take part in the creation of a single piece, and an extraordinary amount of time is devoted to its making. Some techniques have unfortunately disappeared because it has become difficult to reconcile them with the pace of modern life. Yet there is nothing more luxurious than incorporating into our daily lives objects that are shaped over time—where plants grow slowly, and where human hands patiently imbue each piece with care and intention.

Living as a Creative Practice

WW: Japan is facing a growing number of abandoned or underused kominka due to demographic shifts. Has working so intimately with this house changed how you think about preservation, reuse, and responsibility within this broader context?

HM: In Japan, there is also the tradition of Shikinen Sengū. This refers to the ritual rebuilding of Shinto shrines at regular intervals—most famously every twenty years at Ise Grand Shrine. Through this practice, not only the physical structures but also the craftsmanship, techniques, stories, and spiritual values behind them are carefully passed down from one generation to the next.

The continuation of these traditions does not happen only through construction itself, but through daily life—through seasonal rituals and community practices that naturally transmit knowledge and meaning to the next generation. Today, however, lifestyles have diversified, and it has become less common for three generations of a family to live together under one roof.

Through this renovation process, I witnessed firsthand the decline in the number of makers and craftsmen who carry deep skills, knowledge, and experience. At the same time, I also discovered a hopeful movement: younger generations relocating to rural areas and creating new, hybrid ways of living. This kominka has already seen its landscape gradually evolve as it was repaired and adapted through the Meiji, Shōwa, and Heisei eras. Now, in the Reiwa era, I feel a deep intention to gently restore the original scenery of this place while infusing it with a spirit that can endure for another hundred years.

WW: Has the kominka opened up new creative pathways for you beyond architecture—ways of thinking that now inform how you approach fashion, curation, or storytelling?

HM: This shōya residence is not merely an architectural structure; it embodies a total art of living—integrating clothing, food, and shelter, and expressing a holistic way of life. Through this project, I have gained a deeper sense of the richness of living, as well as greater confidence in telling stories through what I create.

By bringing together people from many different fields within this space, their ways of living and perspectives naturally intersected. These encounters have influenced what I see, touch, and experience every day. As my understanding deepened, it also sharpened my perception—positively shaping how I interpret the philosophies of fashion brands, as well as how I choose and convey words and ideas.

Today, many luxury brands are rediscovering the value of proposing ways of living, not just products. This reflects a broader shift: the boundaries between disciplines are dissolving, and everything influences one another, creating powerful, multiplied reactions across fields. In that sense, my curiosity and desire to explore continue to grow endlessly.

The Philosophy Behind tefutefu

WW: Turning to tefutefu, the company you co-founded to explore different interpretations of living aesthetics in Japan—what core ideas or questions were you hoping to explore when it began?

HM: Before founding tefutefu, our team had already been organizing lifestyle-related pop-ups in Tokyo. One project, called CityShed, explored the idea of a small urban cabin—we even recreated my own home in Shibuya and curated an online shop centered around the theme of the home.

These activities began from a desire to explore more deeply the world of Made in Japan, which is also part of my own roots and reflected in the everyday objects we use. As an island nation, Japan has long had a sense of curiosity and romance toward things from abroad. Yet at the same time, I realized how little I truly knew about the richness of what has been cultivated within Japan itself. That realization brought a sense of regret.

When the pandemic arrived and the usual flow of life came to a halt, it became a turning point. It inspired me to shine a light on more self-sustaining ways of living and on the values that should be nurtured in this place. The name tefutefu itself comes from an old Japanese expression meaning butterfly. From the beginning, tefutefu has been guided by the belief that revitalizing Japanese craftsmanship and its underlying spirit can create a kind of butterfly effect—one that resonates in harmony with the wider world. At the same time, I believe the most authentic source of inspiration always begins with what I experience in my own daily life.

WW: Over the past year, tefutefu has expanded into exhibitions, space design, and consulting. How do you define its mission now, and how has it evolved from your original vision?

HM: Our mission is to make Japanese aesthetics more accessible. Within Japanese aesthetics, there is a wide spectrum of subtle “grays”—a cultural appreciation for ambiguity, for reading the invisible atmosphere of a situation, and for the belief that things that are too explicit can feel uninteresting. This sensibility is deeply embedded in Japanese culture.

For example, in haiku poetry, seasonal words (kigo) are often used in indirect ways. Their beauty lies precisely in their subtlety, and in the thoughtfulness they express toward others. Our aim is to inherit the sensibility of those who cultivated this high-context culture, while also reinterpreting it in ways that are easier to understand today and easier to integrate into everyday life. One concept that emerged from deepening our original vision is Irosabi (色寂)—a unique aesthetic philosophy developed by tefutefu.

Historically, Sen no Rikyū refined the philosophy of wabi-sabi, and later Kobori Enshū inherited that spirit and reinterpreted it for his era as kirei-sabi, a more refined and elegant expression. In a similar spirit, Shikishoku celebrates the beauty of aging over time, focusing on the “colors” that can only appear through the passage of time—light and depth revealed through natural transformation. While wabi-sabi has no fixed definition and exists in what one personally feels, Irosabi seeks to reinterpret that sensibility in a way that can also be perceived visually in today’s image-oriented world.

Last year, we curated the Irosabi exhibition in L.A. and Tokyo, bringing together craftsmen and artists to create a space that communicates this philosophy and invites people to experience it directly. And we also presented and sold lacquerware that features layered colors created through multiple applications of Urushi lacquer. As the pieces are used over time in daily life, the upper layers gradually wear, allowing the next color beneath to slowly emerge over the years. These objects are designed to reveal their beauty through time, embodying the philosophy of aging and transformation that lies at the heart of Irosabi.

Inheritance, Family, and Cultural Continuity

WW: Your grandmother, Hanae Mori, left an enormous cultural legacy, with a centennial exhibition opening soon at the National Art Center, Tokyo. How do you relate to inheritance—creative, cultural, or familial—without feeling confined by it?

HM: My siblings and I were fortunate to grow up in a family where we were never constrained to follow predetermined paths. We were always free to choose our own directions. In that sense, freedom can also feel daunting, because both failure and success ultimately become our own responsibility. I am deeply grateful to my parents and grandparents for raising us with that spirit of trust and support.

Through my work as a model, embodying the visions of various designers, makers, and brands, I gradually came to understand more deeply the spirit of creation that my grandmother valued. Looking back, I realize that the many decisions I made by simply trusting my inner voice were also quietly connected to the presence of my grandmother and my family. It was never a matter of being constrained by inheritance; rather, it feels like a natural transmission of conviction that flows through family ties.

A span of one hundred years is a length of time that one may or may not fully experience within a single lifetime. Although my grandmother’s era and my own overlap in some ways, there are also times we have not shared. Yet the act of creating, of carrying forward cultures that have been cultivated over long periods of time, and of nurturing family—these seem to be timeless gifts of richness for humanity, regardless of the era.

I have taken many detours along the way and have been supported by many people around me. In that sense, it may be only natural that these gifts have gradually become the foundation of my life’s work. tefutefu takes its name from an old Japanese word for butterfly—a symbol of lightness, transformation, and continuity. How does that idea of movement and change guide the way you approach projects and collaborations?