Tadao Ando Reflects on a Lifetime of Building with Light for Whitewall’s Latest Cover Story

Few architects have shaped the spiritual and material language of contemporary architecture as profoundly as Tadao Ando. The self-taught master, awarded the Pritzker Architecture Prize in 1995, is renowned for a body of work that is both austere and sublime—monuments of smooth concrete brought to life by geometry and light. From temples, hotels, and residences to museums and office buildings around the world, Ando has created serene spaces that balance modern, minimalist shapes with spiritual sensibilities. In Japan, some of the architect’s most famous works—from the Church of the Light in Osaka to the decades-long transformation of Naoshima Island, turning it into a bucket-list site for art and architecture—lend an unmissable look at his signature material of choice: concrete. Poured in place and finished to a silken precision, concrete has become synonymous with Ando, becoming his poetic canvas for light, shadow, and human experience. 

Born in postwar Osaka and raised by his grandmother in a working-class neighborhood, Ando’s architectural philosophy was forged far from academia. Without formal training, he educated himself through travel, observation, and an early immersion in the tactile world of local craftsmen, absorbing the weight of wood, steel, and labor long before he encountered theory. The strict codes of responsibility and self-reliance instilled in him at home became the foundation of an approach defined by clarity, restraint, and a devotion to form, which all led to freedom. For Ando, that freedom doesn’t lead to excess—it emerges through discipline, through the acceptance of constraints, and through the power of geometry and light. 

From his atelier in Osaka, Ando shared with Whitewall his ethos for architecture and life, ideas that shape his design philosophy, and the questions that still inform his practice today.

Tadao Ando on Japanese Influence

WHITEWALL: You are famously self-taught. How did growing up in postwar Osaka—being raised by your grandmother and shaped by books, travel, and observation rather than formal schooling—shape the way you think about space, discipline, and freedom in architecture?

TADAO ANDO: I grew up in a dense working-class neighborhood in Osaka, where wooden row houses stood tightly side by side. It was far removed from the world of art and culture. Instead, the streets were lined with small workshops and factories, and as a child, I would wander into them and watch the craftsmen at work. The weight of materials, the texture of wood and steel, the tension in their movements—these were things I absorbed physically before I understood them intellectually.

My grandmother, who raised me, had a strong influence on me. She worked constantly to support the household and was not someone who spoke much about ideals. But she was strict about the fundamentals: punctuality, keeping promises, respect for others. In that environment, taking responsibility for oneself was simply assumed.

That sense of independence shaped the way I approach architecture. I do not think of space as something indulgent or comforting. Space must have clarity and order. Through strong geometry and disciplined composition, it gains intensity. And within that intensity, a person can experience a deeper kind of freedom.

To me, independence does not mean avoiding constraints; it means accepting given conditions and transforming them into form. In architecture, as in life, freedom emerges not from the absence of discipline, but from working within it. That understanding comes from the environment in which I grew up.

WW: Your work is often described through principles—geometry, controlled light, concrete, landscape integration, and spiritual experience. Do these ideas still guide you today? Have they evolved into something more intuitive? Have any new principles emerged?

TA: When I began architecture in my late twenties, I set several themes for myself: To create spaces that are open in method, yet impossible to imitate. To make architecture that could exist only in that specific place. To confront nature, and to shape space through light.

Those foundations have not changed. Over time, technique and judgment have been refined. But the themes I pursue are universal, and they have no end. Rather than discovering new principles one after another, it feels closer to deepening a single question. Just when I think I have overcome one wall, another appears. There is no end. Architecture is inexhaustible.

 “I believe that architecture can be made simply by pursuing light alone,”

-Tadao Ando.

WW: Concrete has become synonymous with your name. What first drew you to this industrial material? When did you realize its power? What is its power? What continues to draw you to concrete, and how do you think about its emotional and spiritual potential?

TA: I did not choose concrete out of any grand ideology. Quite simply, I was drawn to its economy—the ability to create both interior and exterior as a single, unified structure. But once I began using it, I was struck by its plasticity. It could form free geometries and assume many different expressions. I sensed an unlimited potential in that flexibility. At the same time, I wanted to use one of the most ordinary construction methods of our time to create something no one else could. That simple spirit of challenge is still the reason I remain committed to concrete.

Yet concrete is a demanding material. What I have sought is a surface refined enough to respond to the Japanese sensibility shaped by wood and paper architecture—something smooth, delicate, almost tactile. In reality, this is never easy. The process may appear simple—mixing water, cement, and aggregate and pouring it into formwork—but precisely because of that simplicity, it is profound. The proportions, the reinforcement, and the precision of the formwork all require relentless experimentation.

In the end, the outcome depends on people. Without the pride and skill of the builders who actually place the concrete, the ideal surface cannot be achieved. The power of concrete lies not only in the material itself, but in the human effort behind it.

Designing Through Geometry and Discipline

WW: Light, both natural and artificial, appears in your buildings as a primary architectural element. When you design, do you begin with light as a concept, or does it emerge through geometry and proportion? When does it enter the project’s design?

TA: I believe that the original form of space can be reduced to the volume and orientation of light. When I design, there is no clear logic or method that can be fully articulated in words. Sometimes the process begins with the question of where and how to open a window. At other times, it begins purely with an image of light itself—light so soft you feel you could gather it in your hands, or light so sacred that it must be received by looking upward. Light defines the contour of space.

In architecture, light is a fragment of nature, yet it functions as an abstraction of nature. As it shifts with time, its changing brightness and shadow breathe life into what would otherwise be nothing more than a mass of air enclosed by walls.

I believe that architecture can be made simply by pursuing light alone. It was Le Corbusier’s chapel at Ronchamp that taught me this. That space remains one of the origins of my understanding of architecture.

WW: Your long relationship with Naoshima has become one of the most profound dialogues between architecture, art, and place. You’ve created several sites on the island, re-shaping it as a contemporary art destination. With the opening of the Naoshima New Museum of Art last year—your tenth project on the island—how do you see this work representing a complete vision of that dialogue?

TA: Naoshima did not begin with a fixed master plan. It has grown slowly over time through an ongoing dialogue between architecture, art, and nature. What began with museum buildings gradually expanded. Outdoor sculptures entered the landscape, extending the relationship between architecture and the natural environment. With the Art House Project, the dialogue deepened further, connecting contemporary art with the island’s history and everyday life. The entire island became a kind of stage.

Architecture and art do not automatically harmonize. Nature, too, resists control. It is precisely this tension—and at times collision—that generates energy and creates new narratives. The project has been sustained by Soichiro Fukutake’s unwavering passion and persistence; without that continuity, Naoshima would not have evolved as it has.

The Naoshima New Museum of Art stands on the extension of this long process. I do not see it as a final completion, but rather as a crystallization of relationships cultivated over decades. As long as architecture, art, nature, and the local community continue to intersect, the dialogue of Naoshima will remain unfinished.

 “What I pursue is not form or style, but spaces that remain in people’s memory,”

-Tadao Ando.

WW: The underground Chichu Art Museum remains a great example of architecture disappearing into the landscape, allowing art and nature to coexist. What challenges do you encounter when working underground versus above ground? 

TA: When building above ground, architecture inevitably stands in confrontation with the landscape. Underground, however, architecture withdraws. It recedes so as not to disrupt the scenery. In return, what is questioned is the purity of the interior space.

The act of descending into the earth becomes part of the architectural experience itself. One feels enveloped by the weight of the ground, the eyes gradually adjusting to darkness. In that dimness, even a limited shaft of light determines the character of the space.

In the Chichu Art Museum, I chose to move from light toward darkness, from the surface into the earth. In a space without clear axial direction, almost any form is possible. Precisely for that reason, I insisted on primal geometries. Within the overlap of simple forms, I pursued how far the quantity and quality of light could be intensified.

Through this experience, I came to understand that architecture is not the protagonist. Nature, light, and art take that role. Architecture serves as a framework that receives them and brings them into relationship. By withdrawing into the earth, architecture reveals a more essential relationship with nature and art. Working underground reinforced for me the idea that architecture is a mediator.

WW: Many of your spaces evoke the atmosphere of Zen temples, despite being built with modern materials. What are your thoughts on your architecture being recognized in this way? Or representative of minimalistic Japanese sensibilities?

TA: I am often asked about the relationship between my work and Japanese tradition or Zen. Yet when I design, I do not consciously attempt to express “Japan.” What I pursue is not form or style, but spaces that remain in people’s memory. To that end, I try to strip architecture down to its essentials—to create something like a blank canvas. Into that space, fragments of nature such as light and wind are drawn, and the atmosphere shifts over time. It is this phenomenon itself that allows the space to come into being.

If my architecture is sometimes perceived as Zen-like, it may be because a particular Japanese view of nature unconsciously emerges. Nature is not something to be controlled or overcome, but something within which we situate ourselves as a part. This sensibility, cultivated in the climate and geography of a temperate island nation, is inscribed deep within the body.

If a reduced and pared-down space is received as “Japanese,” it is not the result of stylistic quotation, but something that arises from within.

Why Architecture Should Feel Like a Refuge

WW: Your early projects, like the Azuma House in Osaka, were radical in their refusal of the street and embrace of inwardness. Why has the idea of architecture as a protected refuge remained central to your practice?

TA: It was never my intention simply to close architecture off. Within the extremely narrow site of Azuma House, concentrating inward was the only way to create a space that could exist like a small universe in dialogue with nature.

Azuma House was the result of rigorous selection under extreme conditions. In a dense urban environment with severe spatial constraints, I sought to generate depth and tension within a limited volume. As that pursuit intensified, the relationship with the exterior was inevitably reduced. What may appear as a severing from the outside was a means, not a rejection.

At the time, much of my work consisted of small houses in highly congested urban districts. A dwelling sometimes needs to function as a refuge—a place that shields its inhabitants from the pressures of the city. My interest in the idea of refuge stems from a desire to create a space where one can quietly recover oneself within such realities.

Architecture must ultimately respond to the context and conditions in which it stands. Azuma House is not a formal prototype to be repeated, but rather the point at which I pushed my architectural thinking to its limits. In that sense, it remains my origin.

WW: What role do you think architecture has in our lives today?

TA: Architecture is a product of society. As society changes, the values expected of architecture also change. Today’s world is complex and constantly in motion. In such a context, what is first required of architecture is function—safety, and increasingly, sustainability.

Architecture alone cannot dramatically transform society. Yet I believe that, at times, it can move beyond function and quietly affect the human spirit. An experience of light or space may allow someone to pause, to reflect, or to imagine a different future. I continue to practice architecture with faith in that small possibility.

 “Architecture is a product of society,”

-Tadao Ando.

WW: Can you tell us about your own home? How does remaining in Osaka shape you and your life there?

TA: My home is a modest apartment near my atelier. I have never felt the need to design a special house for myself. A home, for me, is simply a place to live. Instead, I have continually transformed my atelier into a site of experimentation for my architecture.

There may be some inconveniences, but Osaka is my origin. With no formal education and no institutional backing, I was accepted here simply as “an interesting fellow.” It was the city’s open and generous spirit that allowed me to stand as an architect.

I have worked in many parts of the world, yet the air of this city brings me back to reality. I remain here so that I do not lose myself.

Building Spaces That Remain in People’s Memory

WW: You have often spoken about learning from Le Corbusier, Louis Kahn, and Western modernism through travel, yet your work feels deeply rooted in Japan. How do you balance global architectural language with a sense of local memory, climate, and culture?

TA: Le Corbusier and Louis Kahn are often described as masters of modernism. Yet their works cannot be contained within the single word “modernism.” Each engaged deeply with the land, with light, and with history, and from that engagement emerged architecture of singular character.

Modernism, to me, is not a style but a framework of thought. It is a method open to anyone, yet capable of producing infinitely different worlds depending on how it is embraced and transcended. What matters is not the doctrine itself, but how one confronts it and moves beyond it.

The key always lies in the context—in the history inscribed in a place, in its climate, in its natural conditions. By reading these carefully and making them allies, architecture can arise that belongs only to that specific site.

I do not see the global and the local as opposing forces. Universality does not emerge from abstraction alone, but from a sustained dialogue with the particular.

WW: What do you hope your buildings are known or remembered for?

TA: If it is remembered at all, I would hope it is remembered not as architecture, but as a landscape.

WW: After receiving the Pritzker Prize and shaping generations of architects, how do you define success today?

TA: To still be able to continue my work. There is no greater success.

WW: What are you working on next?

TA: There are always several projects moving at the same time, but to mention a few that come to mind: I am working on an extension to the Kröller-Müller Museum in the Netherlands. In China, the conversion of a former cement factory is underway, and construction has just begun on the new State Museum of Art in Uzbekistan. A new museum project is also taking shape in the Middle East.