Interview with Taichi Hirata

What draws me to design is the quiet satisfaction of giving form to ideas—of turning subtle observations into something tangible.
While the process is often challenging, there's a sense of fulfillment in engaging deeply with materials, spaces, and meanings.
Design is not only how I work, but how I think and connect with the world.

I chose to become a designer—though at first, it wasn’t a deeply thought-out decision.

I design spaces, objects, and sometimes systems—things that shape how we live, sense, and move through the world.
Lately, I’m drawn to designs that exist between categories—projects that resist easy definition and invite unexpected connections.

I’m still learning myself, but I believe it’s important to keep questioning and observing.
What matters most is not recognition, but the quiet persistence to keep making.

Good design often looks impressive.
Great design lingers—it continues to speak, quietly, over time.

A really good design is quiet, but enduring.
It doesn’t seek attention, yet it outlasts trends—gaining depth as time passes, not losing it.

Good design shapes not just what we see, but how we live, feel, and relate to the world.
Its value often lies beneath the surface—but over time, it proves essential.

If I had the time, I would devote it to an ongoing artwork project I've been slowly developing.
It’s not tied to a specific function or client—but it feels necessary, as a way to explore form, material, and thought more freely.

My dream project would be to create something large and meaningful with a team I truly trust—
to push forward together, wrestle with ideas, and keep moving toward completion without compromise.

Observation.

I wouldn’t say there’s one particular figure I consistently follow.
But ever since I was a student, I’ve been drawn to Tadao Ando’s work.

I came across the Can Framis Museum by BAAS Arquitectura while traveling in Barcelona.
The way natural light entered the space and the treatment of materials left a quiet, lasting impression on me.

To me, a great design is one I’ve taken to its limit—
thought through completely, without compromise.
If I’ve done that, even on a small scale, I can stand behind the work.

Keep thinking. Keep observing.

If not design, maybe photography

Design is a way to solve problems.
But solving well requires observation, thinking, and a lifetime of input—
what we notice, what we carry, and how we connect it.

My greatest supporters have been the clients who believed in me early on.
Their trust gave me chances I might not have had otherwise—and I tried to meet that trust with everything I had.

I’m not sure I would call myself a great designer.
But if I’ve grown at all, it’s because I kept thinking, kept observing, and tried not to take shortcuts.
Just staying with the work—that’s what’s helped the most.

The biggest obstacle has always been financial.
Balancing survival with the desire to do thoughtful work is not easy—especially when the work takes time.
But somehow, I’ve kept going—and I hope to keep going, quietly and steadily.

Of course, presenting through the A’ Design Award is one way.
But above all, I think it’s essential that design is shared—
because without being seen, it can’t truly enter into dialogue.

I’m currently working on the renovation of a 100-year-old "nagaya" housing—a traditional Japanese row house.
It comes with many challenges, both spatial and structural, but I see it as a chance to think about what a designer can contribute as a new layer within a long history.
Rather than erase its past, I hope to quietly extend it.

To be someone people need—not for show, but for what I can quietly bring to their lives.

Rather than trying to meet expectations, I try to stay grounded—
to keep designing with care, and to make things that feel necessary rather than impressive.

I believe design helps society not always through bold gestures,
but through small, thoughtful decisions that accumulate—
making daily life more humane, more attentive, and more open.

What I find most fulfilling is working together with others—
engaging in creative processes that carry just a bit of challenge.
That shared focus, where everyone is thinking and building something new, is where I feel most alive.

I’m of course satisfied with Wagon Remodeling Food Van.
But what stays with me most is the process—
the moments of struggling with the team to figure out materials, methods, and small details.
Even in a short timeframe, those shared moments of trial and error made a deep impression.

I hope the design industry continues to place more value on the invisible aspects of our work—
the quiet thinking, the slow decisions, the care behind each choice.
At the same time, I think we as designers also need to reflect on how much of our process has remained a black box.
Perhaps part of the reason it's undervalued is because we haven't made it visible enough.

Design, I think, will always be a response—
to problems that shift, evolve, and multiply with time.
It won’t always be the main voice, but it will be there—
sometimes leading, sometimes supporting, but always listening.

It’s not something I can fully decide myself.
In most cases, the timeline depends on the client’s needs.
But within that framework, I try to spend as much time as possible thinking and refining.
If there’s potential for better design and the situation allows, I sometimes extend the process—always with care and respect for the project’s constraints.

I start by sorting out the core problems and the client’s expectations.
Once I have a basic direction, I question it—
looking for a more precise, thoughtful response to the situation.

To think is to care.

Design can certainly shape trends, but I also see trends as reflections of collective needs in a given time.
So I don’t ignore them—but I do try to understand why a trend carries weight.
Rather than follow blindly, I prefer to ask what it reveals about the moment we’re living in.

Technology helps me see, simulate, and build.
But it doesn’t decide what matters.
That still comes from the question at hand.

I use a mix of digital and analog tools, depending on the phase of the project.
Sometimes that means sketching or making quick models; other times it involves more complex simulations or visualizations.

I see color, materials, and ambient qualities as equally essential—
they’re not secondary details, but fundamental parts of how design is perceived and experienced.
Among them, materials that can be touched—whether or not people actually do—and light, which defines so much of what we see and feel, are especially important to me.

I think I’d just like someone to look at it and ask,
“Does this feel right?” or even just,
“Is this nice?” or “Kind of cool?”
It doesn’t have to be serious.
Even a casual question like that means they’ve felt something—and that matters to me.

There’s always admiration—and sometimes a bit of envy too.
Not in a negative way, but the kind that makes me think,
“I wish I had made that.”
That mix of respect and inspiration stays with me.

Yes, I believe in co-design—especially when it happens between people who respect each other,
and who share the same field but bring different areas of expertise.
That slight overlap and slight difference create the kind of tension that sharpens both sides.
It becomes a source of real insight and energy.

It’s hard to name just one person.
I’ve been most influenced by the people I’ve worked closely with—
especially those I could think with, struggle with, and solve problems with.
Those shared processes shaped not just the outcomes, but how I approach design itself.

No specific book comes to mind,
but I think I’ve been quietly influenced by architectural magazines like Domus,
as well as collections of poetry, photography books, and art publications.
They don’t always have a direct effect,
but something in them often lingers and returns later in unexpected ways.

By observing carefully, thinking consistently,
and staying with the process even when it was unclear or uncomfortable.
I’ve learned the most from working within limitations—
trying to find better answers without giving up.

I just noticed a book spine on my shelf—it reminded me of Asplund.
If I could, I’d like to speak with him when he was working on the Skogskyrkogården

Hard to say.
It would be nice to be more well-known, sure—
but whatever happens, I’ll just keep going with what I’m doing now.
That’s really the only way forward.

Black and winter—very architect of me, I guess.
The rest... I try not to get too attached.

Nothing comes to mind right now—but if I remember something later, I’ll be sure to write it down.

Sometimes it’s just finding a small clarity after a long time thinking.
Other times, it’s seeing someone connect with something I’ve made.
I stay motivated by staying curious—and by trying to move things one step forward, even if it’s a small one.

My father was an architect, so I vaguely assumed I might follow the same path.
It wasn’t something I thought deeply about—but it was always there, quietly.

When I look at what has lasted a thousand years, I feel there are hints about what might matter in the next thousand.
I don’t know what the future will look like, but I hope to create something that could quietly become part of a greater history.

There’s not much I need to say—
I just hope something I’ve made speaks to you in its own quiet way.

studio tata is a Kyoto-based design studio that works across architecture, spatial design, and sometimes product or art projects. While our work often deals with physical space, we are equally interested in the invisible layers behind it—such as habits, memories, or the quiet needs people don’t always express.
Rather than imposing a fixed style, we try to respond sensitively to each context, allowing the design to grow from observation, dialogue, and careful reinterpretation of what’s already there.

For me, design is a method of inquiry and a means of problem-solving. It begins not with answers, but with questions—some spoken, others left unspoken. At the heart of every project lies a certain tension, a challenge that may not always be immediately visible. I believe one of the designer’s most important roles is to uncover these latent problems, both explicit and implicit, and to respond to them through thoughtful, intentional output.

In this way, design is not simply about creating something new—it’s about finding clarity within complexity, and crafting solutions that resonate with human needs, whether articulated or not. That act of uncovering, of truly seeing what needs to be addressed, is where design begins for me.

I enjoy projects that leave a certain openness—where the design doesn’t arrive fully formed, but takes shape through ongoing dialogue with the client, collaborators, and context. What I value most is not the scale or budget of a project, but whether there is space for the design to evolve organically through shared thinking.

Often, the process involves navigating conflicting needs—client expectations, budget constraints, legal regulations—and in such moments, I find myself taking on the role of a mediator. I believe that part of a designer’s responsibility is to hold space for these tensions, and to transform them into something coherent and meaningful.

When a project allows for that kind of deep engagement, it becomes more than problem-solving—it becomes a quiet negotiation between people, ideas, and reality. That’s the kind of work I find most rewarding.

One of my favorite projects is Wagon Remodeling Food Van（food wagon remodeling ）, which recently received the A' Design Award. It’s a mobile food wagon, but also a small piece of architecture that reflects how we live, move, and gather in contemporary society.

What I love about this project is that it challenged the boundary between architecture and mobility. It wasn’t just about designing a functional vehicle—it was about reimagining how public space can be temporarily created, and how food and design together can shape social experience.

The project also involved many constraints—legal regulations, limited space, mobility issues—but it was precisely within those limitations that the most interesting ideas emerged. It was a collaborative and adaptive process, full of dialogue, improvisation, and creative tension. That made it especially rewarding.

The first thing I designed for a company was a bar for a friend. At the time, I was still very inexperienced, and the budget was extremely limited. There were many things I couldn’t do—both technically and financially—but that made the process all the more meaningful.

With the help of friends, senior colleagues, and peers, I was able to define what truly needed to be done and plan the project so that every cost would have the greatest possible effect. It wasn’t about doing more, but about making each choice count.

That experience taught me that design isn’t just about resources—it’s about clarity, collaboration, and the will to make something real despite limitations.

I don’t have a strong preference for any one material—it always depends on the context. But I do find myself drawn to primary, honest materials like wood or steel. These materials can be difficult to work with, but their raw, unfiltered qualities often bring a sense of presence and authenticity that’s hard to replicate.

On the other hand, I tend to avoid imitation materials—those that try to mimic something they’re not. For me, there’s a kind of quiet power in letting a material be what it is, even if that comes with imperfections or limitations. The texture, weight, and even the way a material ages—all of these things carry meaning.

In the end, I believe materials aren’t just about appearance or function—they shape the atmosphere, and sometimes even the behavior, of those who interact with them.