From Tradition to Experimentation: Takuro Nakaya’s Quiet Revolution

Winning the London Design Awards is both an honour and an encouragement. It affirms that a space rooted in Japanese culture and quiet emotion can resonate with an international audience. For me, this recognition celebrates not only aesthetic refinement but also the dialogue between tradition and innovation. The award strengthens my belief that even small, intimate spaces can leave a powerful global impression when crafted with sincerity and depth.

This recognition has elevated our visibility and credibility as an independent design studio. For Poppy Lounge and Poppy Roastery, it validated our belief that intimate, human-scale spaces can be as impactful as large commercial interiors. The award has opened new dialogues with international collaborators and clients who value authenticity and atmosphere over spectacle. It also motivated my team and local craftsmen, proving that our detailed, material-driven work can stand proudly on the global stage.

Experimentation is an essential part of my creative process—it’s how emotion and material begin to speak to each other. In Poppy Lounge, we experimented with traditional copper roofing techniques usually reserved for temples, adapting them for interior surfaces. The reflection of light across each handmade tile changed the mood of the entire space. I often test unexpected combinations—such as raw texture with refined detailing—to discover quiet harmonies that can’t be planned on paper.

One of my most unusual sources of inspiration came from silence itself. During late nights in my hometown in the mountains of Gifu, I was surrounded by fog, insects, and the quiet rhythm of nature. That stillness taught me how powerful emptiness and subtle sound can be in shaping perception. In Poppy Lounge, I tried to recreate that kind of sensory balance—the warmth of light, the soft resonance of materials, and the pause between conversations—like the natural rhythm of a forest at dusk.

I wish more people understood that design is not just about appearance—it’s about rhythm, empathy, and patience. A project evolves through many quiet conversations: with the client, the materials, and even the space itself. In Japan, we often say that good design “leaves room for air”—a sense of openness that invites human presence. That invisible layer, created through countless revisions and subtle adjustments, is where design truly lives. It’s not decoration; it’s dialogue.

Balancing a client’s expectations with my own creative voice begins with listening. Every project starts with empathy—understanding what the client truly values, not just what they say they want. Once trust is built, I guide them toward ideas that go deeper than trends—spaces that express emotion, memory, and material honesty. 

For Poppy Lounge, this meant creating a design that honoured the owner’s vision of quiet hospitality while infusing it with my perspective on light, texture, and intimacy. True collaboration happens when both voices shape something neither could create alone.

The greatest challenge in Poppy Lounge was transforming a dark, forgotten upper-floor unit into a place filled with warmth and emotional depth. Because of the building’s age, we faced uneven floors, limited ceiling height, and poor lighting. Instead of hiding these flaws, we used them to our advantage—introducing curved ceilings, layered textures, and reflective copper panels that created rhythm and softness. Crafting harmony from imperfection required patience and intuition, but it’s precisely that balance that gives the space its soul.

When I feel creatively blocked, I step away from architecture and return to nature. I grew up in the mountains of Hida, where silence, wind, and light constantly shift—the landscape itself teaches rhythm. I often take long walks or simply observe how shadows move across old wooden houses. These moments remind me that creativity isn’t forced; it’s something that reappears when you slow down and listen. Sometimes, a single reflection on copper or the smell of rain on soil is enough to bring clarity back.

Every space I design carries traces of my personal memories and values. I grew up in the mountains of Hida, surrounded by quiet fields, handmade tools, and the rhythm of changing seasons. That environment taught me to see beauty in imperfection and time’s passage. 

I translate those lessons into architecture through warmth, material honesty, and light that changes gently through the day. My work is never about spectacle—it’s about evoking calm and connection, giving form to the invisible emotions that linger between people and place.

My advice to young designers is to slow down and observe more deeply. Today, everything moves fast—images, trends, deadlines—but design grows from patience. Spend time understanding how light touches a wall, how materials age, or how people truly use a space. 

Learn to listen before creating. And don’t be afraid of simplicity—quiet design can hold the deepest emotion. In the end, success is not about fame or followers; it’s about creating something that quietly improves someone’s day, even if they never know your name.

If I could collaborate with anyone, it would be Tadao Ando. His recent works transcend architecture—they express compassion for the city, responsibility to future generations, and an enduring love for life itself. I admire how his designs combine spiritual clarity with generosity toward people and place.

I would also love to collaborate with traditional craftsmen around the world—those who preserve local materials and techniques with care. Whether in Japan, Europe, or Asia, such artisans share a universal language of patience, imperfection, and humanity. Their quiet dedication reminds me that design is not about novelty, but continuity. Through such collaboration, I hope to learn, to connect across cultures, and to create something that endures with grace.

I wish people would ask, “How do you design time?”

For me, design is not only about shaping space, but also about how time is felt within it — how light changes, how materials age, how memory quietly settles in. I believe that a meaningful interior is one that can hold traces of life: the warmth of touch, the echo of conversation, the softness of decay.

In my work, I try to create places that don’t just impress at first sight, but remain gentle companions to those who inhabit them — spaces that remember, and are remembered.