Interviews with Taichi Hirata

The main focus was to make people notice — to shift attention from the product itself to the person behind it.
In Japan, the stone roasted sweet potato food wagon is a nostalgic winter icon, yet it has long existed as an anonymous presence; who sells it has never really mattered.
I wanted the design to reveal this hidden individuality — to make the act of selling visible as an expression of identity and care.

At the same time, being situated in Kyoto, I envisioned it as a gentle source of light — like a lantern softly illuminating the cold and quiet winter streets.
Beyond its function, the wagon was designed to bring a sense of warmth and awareness, connecting people through both its presence and its glow.

Receiving this award made me feel that my way of thinking about design was not mistaken.
It reaffirmed that even quiet, subtle ideas can resonate with others.
This recognition encourages me to keep designing with the same sensitivity — believing that a gentle design can still have a strong voice.

The schedule was quite tight — it took about three months from basic design to completion.
Since then, the wagon has been continuously refined, going through several updates up to its fourth generation.
Each version has allowed me to adjust details and improve usability, treating the project as an evolving design rather than a fixed object.

The project originally came as a commission from a friend of one of our team members.
At first, it seemed slightly outside my field, since I had mainly been designing architecture — things that do not move.
But once I began to think about it, I realized how closely it connects to architecture: structure, light, material, and the experience of space.
It was a refreshing opportunity to approach architectural thinking through mobility.

The design is not intended for mass production.
Each wagon is custom-built and deeply connected to its specific context, making it difficult to reproduce even with the same drawings.
While it could technically be adapted for larger-scale production, this project was never about replication.
My focus was on creating a singular, site-specific work — closer to architecture than product design — something that quietly evolves with each new interpretation.

Above all, I decided to take on this project because it simply felt exciting.
The process of choosing materials and exploring what we could do — slightly expanding the range of our skills as a team — was deeply enjoyable.
As with all my works, I always hope to invent at least one new idea each time, no matter how small.
That sense of curiosity and discovery is what keeps my design practice alive.

I’m not directly influenced by any particular designer.
I often get ideas from what I see during fieldwork in the city or while traveling — small details, traces of how people and places have changed over time.
I find those everyday scenes and anonymous spaces quietly inspiring, and they often stay with me when I design.

The design was created for independent vendors and small business owners who value authenticity and connection with their customers.
At the same time, it was also meant for the people who encounter it on the street — for anyone who might pause, notice the light, and feel a quiet sense of warmth.
In that sense, the design is less about a specific market and more about creating small moments of awareness in everyday life.

Each element of this design may not be entirely new on its own.
However, by layering and recombining familiar components — materials, proportions, and light — I was able to create something that feels new as a whole.
The uniqueness of the project lies not in individual parts, but in how they coexist and form a coherent atmosphere that hadn’t been seen in this context before.

The original title of the project was Food Wagon Remodeling, loosely inspired by a work of Coop Himmelb(l)au.
Somewhere during the award submission process, the name changed to Wagon Remodeling Food Van — not by deliberate choice, but naturally, almost on its own.
I found that process rather interesting; how something can take on a slightly different form once it leaves your hands.

I used a combination of digital modeling and hand sketches throughout the process.
Rather than relying on a single tool, I moved back and forth between analog and digital methods to refine the proportions, light, and overall balance.
For me, the most important tool is always the eye — observing how the design feels in both drawing and physical space.

I aimed to create a design with both presence and warmth — something that could be recognized from a distance, yet feel intimate and inviting up close.
Through its structure, light, and sense of space, it seeks to bring a quiet but memorable atmosphere to the street.

I collaborated with the team at room 404(404号室, Kyoto Japan), who were responsible for both project production and construction.
Together, we conducted research on the development of the outer membrane material and the optimization of the structural frame.
Their technical expertise and experimental approach played a key role in refining the design and realizing the final form.

Technology in this project was closely tied to material research.
For the outer membrane, we aimed to find a material that balanced durability, weather resistance, translucency, color tone, and ease of maintenance.
Together with room 404, we tested and refined several options until the surface could express both functional performance and a subtle, gentle atmosphere.

The project was not driven purely by numerical data, but by observation and experimental research.
We studied how the wagon would interact with light, weather, and daily use, and worked with room 404 to test materials and structural solutions through prototypes.
Of course, we also referred to technical data such as solvent compositions and material properties during the development process.
In addition, we observed how the structure aged and weathered throughout the year, incorporating updates and refinements over four successive generations.
This continuous process allowed the design to mature through real use and time.

Beyond the tight schedule, one of the main challenges was working within a limited budget.
We had to simplify complex three-dimensional joints and details to make them efficient to fabricate while maintaining spatial precision.
Achieving that balance was not easy, but it led to new ideas and a clearer expression of intent.
I was also greatly supported by the craftsmanship of the builders — their skill and intuition helped translate subtle design decisions into tangible form.

It actually started quite casually.
My team and I had uploaded the project to Behance just to share our work, and it was later discovered by the organizers of the A’ Design Award.
Being invited to submit it formally was a pleasant surprise — it felt like an unexpected opportunity for the project to reach a wider audience.

Through this project, I learned how design can engage with people more openly.
Unlike most architectural works, which are often private and rarely seen beyond their façades, this mobile design moved through the city and encountered a wide range of audiences.
The unexpected amount of feedback and interaction made me realize how design can quietly resonate with everyday life — not only as a built form, but as a shared experience.

Through this interview, I had the opportunity to reflect on this project from many different perspectives.
It reminded me of the intentions, challenges, and quiet discoveries that shaped the work.
I truly appreciate the chance to revisit and articulate them once again — thank you.

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.

In Kyoto’s biting winters, the archetypal street scene is guided by gentle light—paper lanterns on carts and small andon in the alleys that don’t flood space so much as invite you forward. I wanted to capture that atmosphere without replicating old forms. Stone-roasted sweet-potato wagons have long been part of this season: a small winter joy you bring home to family, a moment that warms cold hands. The design set out to amplify that memory—treating illumination as a soft beacon rather than spectacle. Warm, low-glare light grazes frames and working surfaces, with controlled fall-off around them, so the wagon reads clearly after dusk yet remains calm and intimate up close.The diagonal elements grew from two linked intentions. First, a structural one: bracing a compact body while carving out a slightly expanded interior pocket where serving and conversation overlap. Second, an urban one: in a city whose streets are organized by horizontal and vertical order, the diagonals establish a clear figure–ground relationship that sets the wagon apart without shouting. Together, the quiet lighting and the oblique frame produce a legible silhouette at a distance and a welcoming presence at the curb—an everyday warmth shaped for Kyoto’s winter.

Budget set our tempo, but the work was fundamentally collective. The carpenters and waterproofing specialists were not contractors “below” design—they were team members, thinking and deciding with us. We prototyped, failed, adjusted, and tried again together. The result unfolded over four wagons, each one learning from the last.The first generation began under the tightest constraints, so we adopted a straightforward timber frame assembled by the team. That choice matched the moment: fast to realize, understandable on site, and appropriate even when we considered long-term upkeep. As the wagons went into service, field use revealed what held up and what needed rethinking; we folded those lessons into the next build.As resources and understanding grew, later iterations became clearer. By the fourth wagon we executed a full renewal, transitioning from timber to a steel frame to increase durability, precision, and daily robustness. In parallel, close work with the waterproofing specialists simplified the exterior strategy: keep the body calm and repairable, treat joints and openings with care, and let necessary lines read as part of the composition rather than decoration.Functionally, this collaboration produced drier, tougher, easier-to-service interiors; aesthetically, it clarified an economy of means—structure doing the speaking, light helping legibility, and the envelope remaining visually quiet. The project did not succeed because of a hierarchy; it progressed because each discipline contributed at the right moment, and each generation answered the previous one’s questions.

The series expanded primarily because the client’s business grew; more units were needed as operations scaled. None of the generations were “fixes” for failures—each was the best we could achieve at that moment. Yet as each wagon went into daily use, client feedback from real operations revealed what only field conditions can: where circulation hesitated, which access points slowed setup, and where maintenance really happened. We used those notes to turn 100 points into 101—streamlining service flow, refining the diagonal frame for bracing and interior clearance, and simplifying openings and panel handling.Insights also cross-pollinated from parallel projects—detailing, assembly sequencing, and finishing methods that proved robust elsewhere were adapted here. By the fourth build, with resources and expectations higher, we undertook a full renewal for durability and precision (including a transition from timber to steel for the primary frame). Throughout, there was no hierarchy—carpenters, waterproofing specialists, and designers worked as peers, prototyping and deciding together. The cumulative effect is clear: stronger daily robustness, faster setup and cleaning, a calmer, more legible silhouette in the city, and an internal workflow that simply feels better—shaped directly by what the client learned in use.

The compact footprint was not arbitrary—it was set by the real geometry of use: the stone-roasting machine, the fuel tank, and the necessary stock capacity. From there we worked backward to the smallest overall volume that could still support safe operation and an efficient service flow. Making it larger would have been easy; the challenge was to achieve maximum usable space with minimal members, so material costs stayed disciplined and assembly remained straightforward. The result is a clear, braced frame that reads light but works hard.These dimensions also align with Japan’s kei-truck format, allowing straightforward mounting and setup on that platform when required. In Kyoto’s tight urban grain, the small size helps the wagon sit with the streetscape rather than against it: it preserves long horizontal views, keeps corners and alleys clear, and allows queues to form parallel to façades without disrupting pedestrian flow. Operationally, the compact envelope keeps working reaches within a comfortable range and reduces unnecessary movement during service. In short, the dimensions are both a technical consequence and an urban strategy—right-sized for the work, and quietly compatible with the city.

There is no fixed “traditional form” for the sweet-potato wagon—its essentials were a pre-recorded vendor chant, a roasting machine, and sometimes a small roof. After dark the details drop away, which is partly why this field rarely drew designers. Our aim was not to costume the wagon in nostalgia, but to carry forward what people remember: a small radius of warmth, a brief exchange, something to take home.We looked to the presence of the andon or chōchin—not to imitate their shapes, which would only produce an imitation, but to quote their spirit: a modest beacon that guides rather than performs. That sensibility is translated through proportion and restraint, a clear silhouette, and light treated as atmosphere instead of spectacle. Within Kyoto’s orthogonal streetscape, the diagonal frame provides a precise counter-gesture: it makes the wagon legible without shouting, and at the same time braces the compact body and opens a workable interior pocket. In this way, tradition is preserved in the experience and attitude, while innovation appears in structure, composition, and clarity.

In Japan, the kei-truck is a uniquely standardized vehicle platform with broad popular appeal due to its extensibility and ease of customization. While it is widely used—primarily for transport and sometimes for mobile vending—its practical efficiency often takes precedence, which can narrow how people imagine what such a small platform could become. With the Wagon Remodeling Food Van, our aim is to extend the possibilities and role of the kei-truck itself: to remain compact, rational, and serviceable, yet offer a clearer public presence and a more intentional spatial experience.By treating the kei-truck not just as a transport solution but as a designable cultural platform, the project suggests a path for street food to persist and evolve in contemporary cities: easy to set up, appropriately scaled for dense streets, and capable of hosting small public rituals without resorting to nostalgic replicas. In this sense, the contribution is twofold—preservation of the everyday act of street vending in a viable present-tense format, and evolution of the base vehicle’s role from purely logistical to meaningfully civic.

Being mounted on a truck bed means the wagon is constantly subjected to vibration and external forces, so the structure had to be inherently resistant. We therefore organized the frame as a truss built from simple triangular geometry. The diagonals are not decorative—they complete load paths, increase stiffness, and help the body hold its shape under repeated movement. Starting from this structural necessity, the space that remained between the members naturally determined the interior pocket and openings, so form followed the working geometry.Visually, the same oblique lines give the wagon a clear, memorable silhouette within Kyoto’s horizontal–vertical streetscape. The angled members read immediately at street scale, creating identity without excess means. In that sense, the diagonals do double duty: they make the unit tougher in use and clearer in appearance—the wagon looks the way it works.

There’s a limit to what one person can see or think alone.Our collaborations don’t assign fixed roles or hierarchies; instead, different backgrounds bring different questions, and the work improves through that exchange. We prototype together, look closely, and keep adjusting until the decisions feel clear to everyone. For the Wagon Remodeling Food Van, that shared process turned ideas into working geometry, organized space in a straightforward way, and refined the presence on the street—outcomes that emerged from conversation rather than predefined functions.

Above all, I would start with observation.Every place has its own culture, scale, and expectations, and any design should respect that rather than impose an imported image. What matters is to listen carefully—to the city, to the people, and to the client’s needs—and search for a response that feels natural in that specific context.Balancing cultural respect with the practical requests of the client is always enjoyable for me. If those elements come together honestly, a new wagon could emerge that belongs to its environment—not as a copy of Kyoto, but as something that grows from its own streets and everyday rituals.