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Tokyo is a city of contrasts. It is both hyper-modern and steeped in tradition. It is known for art, architecture, design, and fashion, yet it's also a city that — through its built form — makes the argument that architecture is irrelevant.
While the city certainly has countless examples of remarkable architecture, the vast majority of its buildings are arguably just that — buildings. They are a nondescript part of the urban fabric that give back through their siting, scale, rhythm, and mix of uses rather than their raw architectural qualities. Sometimes you may not even be able to see the building past all the signage.
If you were looking for a city to support the argument that urbanism matters more than architecture, I think Tokyo would be a good place to start.
What Tokyo does so successfully is ground-up urbanism (as opposed to top-down master planning). Flexible permissions, mixed-use zones by default, and an orientation around rail have allowed Tokyo to organically evolve into one of the most livable global cities on the planet.
In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find any city of this magnitude that is simultaneously this livable. Which makes me wonder: Are we spending too much time worrying about architecture?
It is common for big cities to have design review processes. These typically consist of a panel of experts who evaluate new development proposals based on their architectural and urban design qualities. The comments that come back might suggest that a long facade be visually "broken up," or that additional stepbacks be introduced in order to mitigate the impact on the street and improve sky views. It's a process that can be lengthy.
But what Tokyo tells us is that, while architecture matters a great deal, it may not be the most important thing to focus on from a city-building standpoint. What matters more is the space and relationship between these buildings, the uses and permissions granted to their occupants, and the overall relationship to transit infrastructure. Here, urbanism is more critical than architecture.
If you buy this argument, then design review panels aren't actually our most pressing priority. Instead, what we should have is a kind of urbanism review panel. But rather than react to new developments, its job would be to go out and proactively identify and fix bad urbanism: this street is too narrow, this street is too wide, OMG what were we thinking here, and so on.
Then, when a new development proposal comes along, this panel would get out of the way and let the market decide what it wants to be. It would trust that it had done its job and laid the right preconditions for good urbanism to emerge.
Sounds weird and unsettling, doesn't it? Except, we might be pleasantly surprised by what it would lead to.
Cover photo by Fred Nassar on Unsplash
Over the years, we've spoken a lot about the benefits of cities permitting small-scale commercial uses in residential neighborhoods.
They increase overall urban vibrancy. They promote local consumption (reducing the need for people to do things like drive). And they can help reduce the barriers to entry for small businesses. These spaces tend to be more cost-effective and, in some cases, like here and here, they are spaces that the homeowner already owns.
But there are some important objections to consider. Perhaps the most common one is this: What happens if my neighbor opens a 24-hour taco stand next door? I'm fairly confident that I could single-handedly keep a taco stand in business if it opened up next to me — what an amenity — but I get the concern. It's a legitimate one.
In this part of the world, we have typically responded to this concern by restricting uses. We have thrown the baby out with the bathwater by saying, "Nope, restaurants aren't allowed, because there's a chance it could be a 24-hour taco stand and that might annoy people."
But there are alternatives.
Japan's land-use approach, for example, is (1) generally focused on what you can do (versus what you can't do) and (2) organized around intensity and nuisance. I've never developed in Japan and I don't know the exact nuances of their policy framework, but directionally I think it's an interesting way to moderate this land-use consideration.
An accountant who wants to hang a shingle is different from a coffee shop that's only open from 8am to 3pm (and doesn't have a commercial kitchen), and a coffee shop is different from Peggy Gou DJ'ing next door at an all-night taco bar. But they are all non-residential uses, and that makes them illegal in many/most residential neighborhoods.
Thinking in terms of an intensity gradient is one way to create more mixed-use communities, while at the same time respecting the local context.
I was out for dinner last night on Ossington (here in Toronto). Afterwards, my business partner Rick and I walked the street for a bit. It was a beautiful evening. Every restaurant had their doors and windows open. All of the patios were full, many with the kind of awnings that I love from Paris. And in between these patios were endless options for beautiful window shopping. So during our walk, we couldn't help but say to each other, "man, what an awesome street."
Our line of thinking then went here: How did this ~600-meter stretch of street between Queen and Dundas become one of the coolest retail streets in the city? As you might expect, it follows the typical urban trajectory. It was a seedy street with cheap(er) rents. Then the artists and creatives started moving in, along with OG dive bars like Sweaty Betty's. And then the city implemented a brief moratorium on bars and restaurants because things were getting a bit too fun.
I also think it's fair to call Ossington's rise as being a spillover from Queen Street West. As rents rose on Queen, Ossington became a natural outlet. It was in the right location, and it already had a commercially-oriented and fine-grained ground plane, meaning the buildings could be easily repurposed for galleries, bars, restaurants, and whatever else. This is also why the strip just dies north of Dundas — there are no more suitable buildings.
To show you just how entrenched this built form was and is, here are a few archival photos from the 1920s and 1940s:
Beyond this, there's nothing particularly special about Ossington as a street. It has a 20-meter width, which is typical of most of Toronto's central main streets, and it's filled with a bunch of 2 to 3 storey buildings. So another thing it does is make you wonder: How many more Ossington Avenues could Toronto have if only we created the right preconditions for new businesses and ideas to flourish?
Of course, not every street can be an Ossington. What I'm talking about is simply creating more walkable, mixed-use streets. That's a lot harder to do when you don't have the bones that Ossington had, and you have primarily large lots and/or residential uses. But that doesn't mean it's impossible. As Toronto works to intensify its major streets, it's crucial that we also consider what the ground plane might one day want to become.
More on this in future posts.
Tokyo is a city of contrasts. It is both hyper-modern and steeped in tradition. It is known for art, architecture, design, and fashion, yet it's also a city that — through its built form — makes the argument that architecture is irrelevant.
While the city certainly has countless examples of remarkable architecture, the vast majority of its buildings are arguably just that — buildings. They are a nondescript part of the urban fabric that give back through their siting, scale, rhythm, and mix of uses rather than their raw architectural qualities. Sometimes you may not even be able to see the building past all the signage.
If you were looking for a city to support the argument that urbanism matters more than architecture, I think Tokyo would be a good place to start.
What Tokyo does so successfully is ground-up urbanism (as opposed to top-down master planning). Flexible permissions, mixed-use zones by default, and an orientation around rail have allowed Tokyo to organically evolve into one of the most livable global cities on the planet.
In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find any city of this magnitude that is simultaneously this livable. Which makes me wonder: Are we spending too much time worrying about architecture?
It is common for big cities to have design review processes. These typically consist of a panel of experts who evaluate new development proposals based on their architectural and urban design qualities. The comments that come back might suggest that a long facade be visually "broken up," or that additional stepbacks be introduced in order to mitigate the impact on the street and improve sky views. It's a process that can be lengthy.
But what Tokyo tells us is that, while architecture matters a great deal, it may not be the most important thing to focus on from a city-building standpoint. What matters more is the space and relationship between these buildings, the uses and permissions granted to their occupants, and the overall relationship to transit infrastructure. Here, urbanism is more critical than architecture.
If you buy this argument, then design review panels aren't actually our most pressing priority. Instead, what we should have is a kind of urbanism review panel. But rather than react to new developments, its job would be to go out and proactively identify and fix bad urbanism: this street is too narrow, this street is too wide, OMG what were we thinking here, and so on.
Then, when a new development proposal comes along, this panel would get out of the way and let the market decide what it wants to be. It would trust that it had done its job and laid the right preconditions for good urbanism to emerge.
Sounds weird and unsettling, doesn't it? Except, we might be pleasantly surprised by what it would lead to.
Cover photo by Fred Nassar on Unsplash
Over the years, we've spoken a lot about the benefits of cities permitting small-scale commercial uses in residential neighborhoods.
They increase overall urban vibrancy. They promote local consumption (reducing the need for people to do things like drive). And they can help reduce the barriers to entry for small businesses. These spaces tend to be more cost-effective and, in some cases, like here and here, they are spaces that the homeowner already owns.
But there are some important objections to consider. Perhaps the most common one is this: What happens if my neighbor opens a 24-hour taco stand next door? I'm fairly confident that I could single-handedly keep a taco stand in business if it opened up next to me — what an amenity — but I get the concern. It's a legitimate one.
In this part of the world, we have typically responded to this concern by restricting uses. We have thrown the baby out with the bathwater by saying, "Nope, restaurants aren't allowed, because there's a chance it could be a 24-hour taco stand and that might annoy people."
But there are alternatives.
Japan's land-use approach, for example, is (1) generally focused on what you can do (versus what you can't do) and (2) organized around intensity and nuisance. I've never developed in Japan and I don't know the exact nuances of their policy framework, but directionally I think it's an interesting way to moderate this land-use consideration.
An accountant who wants to hang a shingle is different from a coffee shop that's only open from 8am to 3pm (and doesn't have a commercial kitchen), and a coffee shop is different from Peggy Gou DJ'ing next door at an all-night taco bar. But they are all non-residential uses, and that makes them illegal in many/most residential neighborhoods.
Thinking in terms of an intensity gradient is one way to create more mixed-use communities, while at the same time respecting the local context.
I was out for dinner last night on Ossington (here in Toronto). Afterwards, my business partner Rick and I walked the street for a bit. It was a beautiful evening. Every restaurant had their doors and windows open. All of the patios were full, many with the kind of awnings that I love from Paris. And in between these patios were endless options for beautiful window shopping. So during our walk, we couldn't help but say to each other, "man, what an awesome street."
Our line of thinking then went here: How did this ~600-meter stretch of street between Queen and Dundas become one of the coolest retail streets in the city? As you might expect, it follows the typical urban trajectory. It was a seedy street with cheap(er) rents. Then the artists and creatives started moving in, along with OG dive bars like Sweaty Betty's. And then the city implemented a brief moratorium on bars and restaurants because things were getting a bit too fun.
I also think it's fair to call Ossington's rise as being a spillover from Queen Street West. As rents rose on Queen, Ossington became a natural outlet. It was in the right location, and it already had a commercially-oriented and fine-grained ground plane, meaning the buildings could be easily repurposed for galleries, bars, restaurants, and whatever else. This is also why the strip just dies north of Dundas — there are no more suitable buildings.
To show you just how entrenched this built form was and is, here are a few archival photos from the 1920s and 1940s:
Beyond this, there's nothing particularly special about Ossington as a street. It has a 20-meter width, which is typical of most of Toronto's central main streets, and it's filled with a bunch of 2 to 3 storey buildings. So another thing it does is make you wonder: How many more Ossington Avenues could Toronto have if only we created the right preconditions for new businesses and ideas to flourish?
Of course, not every street can be an Ossington. What I'm talking about is simply creating more walkable, mixed-use streets. That's a lot harder to do when you don't have the bones that Ossington had, and you have primarily large lots and/or residential uses. But that doesn't mean it's impossible. As Toronto works to intensify its major streets, it's crucial that we also consider what the ground plane might one day want to become.
More on this in future posts.
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