Recently, we had the pleasure of hosting an evening with new friends, Christopher Mead, an emeritus historian of architecture at UNM, and his wife, Michele Penhall, a photography curator. As we enjoyed canapés and citrus salad on our porch, with an uninterrupted view of the Sandia Mountains, we watched the flickering torches of errant hot-air balloons marking Balloon Festival week in Albuquerque. Our conversation naturally gravitated towards complexity—an area we discovered to be of mutual interest and that sparked a fascinating dialogue. Christopher Mead’s work on Japanese architecture, a tradition that honors the interdependence of space and time, captivated me. This approach contrasts with the West’s modern architectural tradition, which often emphasizes Cartesian principles—separating body from mind and neglecting the relational, contextual, and cyclical nature of our reality. Mead’s exploration of how Japanese architecture embodies a more fluid, interconnected understanding of space-time resonated deeply with my own work. In my coaching and consulting practice, I help teams and organizations navigate complexity by guiding them toward a more nuanced understanding of themselves, leveraging tools and processes that align with the non-linear, interdependent dynamics of the social and material cultures we actually experience to more effectively shape effective and constructive strategic action.
Mead’s most recent publication, The Hypospace of Japanese Architecture (2023, ORO Editions), is a monumental two-volume work—one text-based and the other filled with illustrations and photographs—representing 19 years of research. His work examines Japanese architecture highlighting Hiroshima’s atomic bombing on August 6, 1945, and the subsequent Hiroshima Peace Memorial and Park designed by Tange Kenzo as a point of departure. Mead argues that this Memorial marks the beginning of post-war
architecture, and introduces the concept of “hypospace”—or “space beneath time”—a notion reflecting that the explosion detonated above Hiroshima and had no epicenter.
The event compressed three-dimensional space into a single point in time. This idea of hypospace also mirrors Japan’s understanding of space and time as interdependent and intertwined, much like the broader complexity of life and history.
From Mead’s perspective, the pre- and post-Hiroshima periods are not isolated in time, but rather are interwoven—a view that echoes the complexities we encounter in the social and organizational realms. Our conversation occurred only 100 miles from Los Alamos, where “Little Boy,” the bomb developed under a shroud of secrecy, was created—a sobering reminder of the intertwining forces of innovation, destruction, and human history.
Mead also touches on a paradox central to Japanese culture: its uniqueness relies on openness to outside influence. This openness, a dynamic interplay between foreign ideas and indigenous culture, has shaped Japan’s culture and by extension its architectural inventiveness and transformation over the centuries. Rather than resisting external forces, Japan has absorbed and redefined them, contributing to its rich
architectural heritage.
I’m eagerly anticipating reading Mead’s work in full, and I invite you to explore his compelling narrative. It is an incredible achievement, and I celebrate its release and the conversations it will surely inspire.
