The surrounding city lighting cast a yellow-orange hue onto the concrete exterior. Unyielding, the textured surface diffused the glow, breaking it into scattered patterns that accentuated its grooves, ridges, and imperfections. This interaction softened the brightness, creating a muted and gentle luminescence. The material appeared to be board-formed concrete—a technique where wooden boards act as moulds, leaving the grain's distinct texture imprinted on the surface during the pour.
Board-formed concrete is commonly associated with modernist architectural styles, but the structure I was observing was a Shinto shrine. Its solidity and weight exuded a grounding presence, standing firm at the northeast corner of a densely packed grid of side streets and alleyways. In the distance, the merriment of suited workers drifted through the air as they released the week's tension. Cheer echoed from the numerous small-scale drinking and dining establishments through a jumble of lantern-lit facades and tangled overhead cabling.
Meanwhile, I watched a steady stream of visitors pass beneath the shrine's gate. I have a particular fondness for shrines at night. Many Shinto outposts, especially those in residential areas, close their gates in the evening, their precincts inaccessible to nocturnal wanderers. Only a few lanterns remain aglow, guiding the spirits through the darkness. But in the commercial heart of Tokyo, amidst towering buildings and nightlife, a shrine will often keep its grounds open late.
That night, a side street illuminated by red lanterns in the distance had enticed me into the inner layers of a ring of mixed-use zakkyō (雑協) buildings adorned with neon signage and advertisements. Shielded by the multi-storey structures, I walked through three narrow alleys lined with shorter, two-storey buildings stretching westward from the shrine's approach. Some years later, I came across Emergent Tokyo: Designing the Spontaneous City, where Jorge Almazán and Studiolab identify this network of alleys as the Karasumori Block, highlighting it as a prime example of the urban phenomenon known as yokochō (横丁) alleyways.
Tracing its origins to the Heian Period (794–1185), the Karasumori Block's location was once part of Sakurada-mura, a sandy beach along Edo Bay fringed with a pine forest. As countless crows gathered in the forest to build their nests, the area became known as Karasu no Mori (烏の森, Crow Forest), later shortened to Karasumori.
During the Edo Period (1603–1868), the district's proximity to Edo Castle—now the Imperial Palace—made it a prime location for the estates and residences of daimyō (大名, feudal lords). After the Meiji Restoration in 1868, which abolished the feudal system and established a modern, centralised government, these lands were subdivided and sold.
Karasumori Station was established in 1909, catalysing the development of businesses and entertainment venues. In 1932, the station was renamed Shimbashi (新橋) after the original Shimbashi Station—Japan's first railway terminus—was converted into a freight terminal. The Karasumori legacy endures in Shimbashi JR station's Karasumori Exit, offering access to the district’s grittier west side. The Karasumori Block itself lies just a few minutes' walk away.
After World War II, street vendors occupied the land near Shimbashi Station, which the government cleared during the war, forming one of Tokyo's first postwar black markets. By 1946, this had evolved into the Shinsei Market—a dense network of wooden stalls housing nearly three hundred establishments, primarily bars and restaurants. The market grew as a centre of postwar recovery and nightlife, shaping the buzzing atmosphere that continues to define the locale.
In the 1960s, redevelopment efforts to modernise Tokyo led to relocating the market's vendors to the newly constructed New Shimbashi Building in 1971. With its distinctive lattice-fronted facade, the broad building occupies the 16-ban block of Shimbashi 2-chōme and remains a prominent landmark. Inside, the passage of time is palpable, with many establishments preserving their original mid-century character. The happenings within the New Shimbashi Building are a story for another newsletter.
Though the Shinsei Market vanished, its spirit of small-scale commerce and nightlife endured. The Karasumori Block, opposite the New Shimbashi Building, became the inheritor of this atmosphere. Its layout has remained essentially unchanged since the Edo period, resisting the transformations of war and redevelopment.
I don't often visit Shimbashi for yokochō drinking these days. Still, whenever I'm nearby, I enjoy strolling through the Karasumori Block, letting the atmosphere wash over me as I head back toward the concrete gate of Karasumori Shrine. Its aesthetics, atmosphere, and history are a standout feature within this already storied neighbourhood.
The shrine’s architectural presence was the first thing to catch my attention. The main structure diverges from conventional Shinto styles such as ancient shinmei-zukuri (神明造), known for its extreme simplicity and wooden construction, or the curved rooflines and intricate details of kasuga-zukuri (春日造). Instead, its sharp, angular forms and exposed concrete reflect Brutalist influences.
In recent years, Brutalism seems to have captured new imaginations. The architectural style, which emerged in the mid-20th century, is defined by its emphasis on raw, exposed materials—mainly concrete—and bold, geometric forms. Its name derives from the French term béton brut (raw concrete), famously associated with Le Corbusier’s Unité d'Habitation, a pioneering residential housing project in Marseille. I’ve heard people, whom I once thought indifferent to architectural styles, express a newfound appreciation for a good, brutal building, while others simply label it as "ugly." In any case, Brutalism is a style capable of stirring conversation beyond architectural circles.
Karasumori Shrine was redesigned by architect Kikuo Kōri, with its new structure completed in 1971—the same year the Shinsei Market was relocated. The use of concrete was primarily due to recently implemented local fire prevention ordinances, which restricted the construction of wooden buildings in urban areas. Kōri appears to have embraced this restriction as an opportunity to reimagine the modern shrine. Later, in 1993, a concrete torii (鳥居) gate was added to complement the main building.
Yamaken of Tokyo Architecture Trip draws parallels between Karasumori Shrine and structures such as the Izumo Taisha Administration Hall—a concrete shrine office in Shimane Prefecture designed by Kiyonori Kikutake, one of the founders of the Metabolist movement. Indeed, while the shrine has Brutalist appeal, it also reflects Metabolist principles—a Japanese architectural movement that, like Brutalism, shares a use of raw concrete.
Metabolism emerged in the 1960s, envisioning cities and structures as dynamic, organic entities capable of growth and transformation. The movement introduced ideas such as modular, replaceable components and adaptable urban forms—concepts that find some resonance in Karasumori Shrine’s design. It adapts as much as is reasonable to a contrasting urban fabric, with zakkyō buildings on one side, the ramshackle bars and eateries of the yokochō alleyways on the other, and a backdrop of glass-box office buildings.
Still, the upright roof, adorned with traditional chigi (千木) and katsuogi (鰹木), bridges the modern aesthetic with Shinto symbolism. This design approach by Kōri moves beyond mere stylistic adoption, creating a meaningful fusion. Chigi, rooted in shinmei-zukuri tradition, are forked finials that extend upward from the roof ridge, symbolising a connection to the divine. Katsuogi are horizontal wooden beams along the ridge, historically used to stabilise the roof and signify the sacred nature of the structure.
Venturing into this unique architectural hybrid, you'll find a smooth stone plaque set against a rugged board-formed concrete wall that illuminates the shrine's history before its redesign. The translation reads as follows:
During the Heian period, in the third year of Tengyō (940 CE), Taira no Masakado launched a rebellion in the eastern provinces, prompting Fujiwara no Hidesato to be dispatched to quell the uprising. Seeking divine favour, Hidesato prayed for victory and encountered a fox, who guided him to a site where sacred birds gathered. Upon arriving and witnessing a congregation of crows, he established a shrine, marking the origins of this holy place.
The shrine has been venerated for over a thousand years as a guardian of military success, business prosperity, artistic talent, and household safety. In the sixth year of Meiji (1873), it was officially designated a village shrine under the modern shrine ranking system. The current building, reconstructed in Shōwa 46 (1971), remains unchanged today.
Sustained by the faith of its parishioners and devotees, this shrine maintains harmony with nature, offering solace to all who visit, even amid the rapid urbanisation of Shimbashi.
December, 1971
Chief Priest: Yamada Haruo
This legend benefits from additional context. Fujiwara no Hidesato was a Japanese courtier and military general, while Taira no Masakado, a warlord, is notable for leading the first recorded uprising against the central government in Kyōto. The appearance of the sacred fox introduces a mythological dimension to the narrative. Some accounts suggest that Hidesato encountered the fox in a dream, which guided him to search for a corresponding forest. More fantastical versions describe a white fox presenting Hidesato with a white-feathered arrow, which he is credited with using to secure victory over Masakado in battle.
Whenever I visit the Karasumori Shrine, I find myself watching the worshippers as they come and go. I notice office workers moving between drinking spots and hospitality staff heading to their shifts. They make brief offerings and prayers, and I often wonder what draws them there at night. Reviewing the deities, or kami (神), enshrined within tends to provide a reliable indication of visitors' motivations at any shrine. Karasumori enshrines three kami:
Kuraokami-no-Mikoto (倉稲魂命): A goddess associated with agriculture and rice cultivation. She symbolises prosperity and success, particularly in business.
Ame-no-Uzume-no-Mikoto (天鈿女命): The goddess of performing arts and entertainment—a noteworthy inclusion since she is apparently an uncommon deity to find enshrined anywhere.
Ninigi-no-Mikoto (瓊々杵尊): This god represents divine authority and a generally prosperous life. He is the grandson of goddess Amaterasu, the highest deity in Japanese mythology.
Colour-coded protective amulets, or omamori (お守り), embodying deities' power can be procured at the shamusho (社務所) or shrine office. These small, decorative items are typically made of cloth and embroidered with intricate designs, often featuring kanji characters that represent the assorted blessings they offer. Karasumori Shrine also dispenses omamori specifically for cancer prevention and healing, attracting numerous visitors. This trend indicates a broader societal concern, as cancer remains a leading cause of death in Japan.
The idea is not that the kami directly cure or ward off cancer through metaphysical intervention. Rather, acquiring an omamori and focusing on a specific outcome is a tangible expression of one's intentions and a way to align with the unique characteristics and domains of the kami. This act of manifestation builds clarity and resolve, which can naturally motivate individuals to take the necessary practical steps toward achieving their goals. While the recent productivity and wellness trend of "manifesting" might seem like a new concept, Shinto practices have long embodied a similar philosophy.
This goes some way toward summarising how I view the value of prayer as a whole. The structured framework of Japan's Shinto shrine system offers a concrete way to focus aspirations through action. Spiritually, understanding the unique attributes of each shrine sharpens intentions while maintaining reverence for the kami. Personally, the process of researching, locating, and visiting a shrine transcends the benefits of simple manifestation, becoming a ritualised journey.
There are at least 80,000 shrines in Japan that are part of the Association of Shinto Shrines, and when including off-grid shrines, the total number is likely over 100,000. Even visiting one per day for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t come close to seeing them all. Instead, the distribution of deities narrows the pool of shrines I might choose to visit. At the same time, I let intuition guide me, stopping to learn more about shrines that catch my attention while out walking. And more than occasionally, after reading the inscriptions and materials, I find those I gravitate toward to have some connection to my aims.
While passing through an intriguing pocket of urban Tokyo, Karasumori Shrine’s hybrid architecture drew my attention. Beyond its striking design lay a connection to the arts, business success, and enduring health—ideals that align with the way I want to live. Now, each time I pass through Shimbashi, I have a moment to consider those intentions, as the pale streetlights cast their glow on that textured concrete.
Until we meet on the Karasumori Block,
AJ
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