Before the summer of 1961, Arthur Erickson’s connection to Japan was mediated. He had learned about Japanese art and architecture through photographs and texts in books and periodicals. He also knew about and admired the influence of its forms on Western painting and architecture, including its impact on Frank Lloyd Wright, who he acknowledged as a significant influence in his practice. Motivated by the representation of Japanese art and architecture he had been exposed to, Erickson applied for a travel grant from the Canada Council for the Arts to pursue his first trip to Japan.

Erickson lacked faith in photographic information. He recognized the subjectivity of photography and how the photographer and the camera together actively mediate representations of the world. Framing, contrast, colour, and texture, among other things, are subjective choices and photographic interpretations—sometimes even manipulations—of reality.

Aware that reality exists beyond the camera, Erickson relied on his understanding of the limitations of photography to frame his application and justify his need for site-specific travel to Japan. He proposed to base his research investigations on three key aspects: “the mastery of space, the mastery of siting, and the suitability of the forms to the climate” in Japanese architecture.¹ All are characteristics of architecture intrinsically connected to the particularities of the environment and grounded in the realities of site. The buildings he proposed to visit—examples of both traditional and modern architecture—, responded directly to their contexts, were influenced by history and culture, and were shaped by the landscape, climate, and light. Notably, Erickson remarked on the similarities of these aspects of the environment in British Columbia, where he later designed and built most of his projects. Erickson, who in his application acknowledged that his approach to architecture was “purely from the creative standpoint,” and that he acted less as a commercial practitioner and more as an artist, recognized that learning about architectural expression required a lived experience to achieve a sensorial immediacy in which space and temporality unite:²

It is evident that none of these aspects can be understood without prolonged study on the site itself. Written material and photographs are informative but can be misleading without the actual experience of the buildings. The essence and meaning of the architecture of a culture remains evasive and hidden until experienced. As baroque architecture was to me a mystery until seen in location and climate and in context with other buildings, so the meaning of architecture of Japan evades me now.³

Erickson received the opportunity to pursue the detailed itinerary he included in the letter, one that would resemble a site-specific performance sustained, for example, by his determination to climb up the stairs to the Ise Jingu Temple to understand the idea of reincarnation and eternal youth represented in its ritual of rebuilding every twenty years.⁴ It took shape as he walked through the garden in Katsura to approach the Shokin-tei across paths of rocks, realizing that he had become part of its spiral design when he discovered the palace again through the garden at the other side of the lake.⁵ Or it framed his comprehension of space after sitting down during a long period in Ryoan-ji to study the balance of rock compositions.⁶ As a grant recipient, Erickson was expected to deliver a final report to the Canada Council for the Arts about his research travels.⁷ No evidence of a report is extant. Yet in the same way that photography grounds a site-specific performance in a specific moment, Erickson’s photographic archive is proof of his research experiences and observations. In this way, he embodied both the roles of performer and photographer.

Going through the boxes of photographs Erickson took in 120 reversal film, it is possible to find a meticulous record of all the places he visited on his Japan trip. His photographs are formal: the architecture is perfectly framed and the light is professionally exposed. He was aware of repeating similar photographs to those he had seen before being on-site, capturing fragments of buildings and sites while omitting context—as if he was trying to make a deliberate point to leave information out of the photograph. This omission was an invitation to those who had not yet visited the site to seek out the opportunity to do so, just as he was inspired to do so that summer.

Looking further in archival boxes, I found other photographs focusing on details of paths, the overlapping of materials, the misalignment of structures, and the forest shadows on the mossy rocks. They spiral back to the closing statement in his application in which he recognizes architecture “as much an art form as painting or sculpture, though it requires greater skill and experience to take it beyond the purely practical role of shelter to that of an interpretive art.” These photographs are the keen observations of someone who deliberately spent time on-site, capturing his unique experiences and intent to find and attribute meaning to architecture.