The most welcome visitor to the Suzuki house is, quite possibly . . . rain. The three-story building on a hillside in Asaka, southern Saitama Prefecture, is like a theater designed for the enjoyment of performances by that most versatile player from the sky, as it dances and sings and soothes on its way to the sea.

The show usually begins with a pizzicato of raindrops on the south-facing, glass-roofed upper balcony, soon followed by a flowing chorus. The family sitting comfortably at the dining table inside is thrilled to watch and hear the rain's improvisations on the see-through roof and walls.

Nobuhiko Suzuki, an architect and professor at Tokyo University of Science, and his wife, Yasuko, thoroughly enjoy living in this unique house, designed by them and built in 1989. "We have never been bored watching the rain show. It is new every time," she says. Nobuhiko nods, adding, "It is so enjoyable that you just want to keep the company of rain as long as possible."

On the second-floor verandah, the rainwater is eased into a placid pond. From here it is guided to an interior pool, and urged to applaud itself in a gently spouting fountain that sings a lullaby for those who sleep in the adjacent tatami room. In summer, a bamboo bench over the pool offers the refreshing tactile pleasure of cool water for the feet, while in winter the water warmed by the sun helps control the room's temperature and humidity.

From the "theater's" second tier, the water is channeled down to a stone basin on the ground, tinkling as it takes its final leap outside. Birds are often drawn from a nearby coppice to greet the sparkling water, taking a drink and bathing. Schoolchildren, too, pass by, then come running to the basin to giggle and shout as they splash the cool liquid around.

For its sotto voce but satisfying finale, the show at the Suzuki house features its star performer's exit, stage east, along a runway-like conduit cut into a low wall, before it eases into the ground to nourish the verdant backdrop.

Meanwhile, another stage is also set on the east side of the house, where rainwater slides from the rooftop to the front porch by clinging to the outside of a vertical pipe and showing off its fluid athleticism. Sometimes on a shivery winter night, this slowly flowing water freezes, turning the pipe into one large icicle that sparkles in the next morning's sunshine once the rain has stopped.

But even then the show's not over, as from the porch, water drips down in a miniature waterfall to a small, graveled garden where it is absorbed, without splashing, by the earth. The drip-drip of water, or its straight plummet, can be observed from the cozy bathroom facing the garden, where the "audience" may, during heavy downpours, watch as the rainwater flows from the garden and forms a small stream.

Thinking globally

Though Nobuhiko emphasizes the pleasure element of detaining rainwater at various points and in various ways around the house, he points out that he is also addressing a global environmental issue. This, he explains, is the need to sustain the natural hydrological cycle by encouraging the evaporation of surface water -- a key process that has been sharply cut down by urbanization, as cities of concrete turn streams into subterranean drains and fields into asphalt. "Rainwater is now regarded as a nuisance to be rushed out of the city," he laments.

"In old Japan, rain was a much-welcomed blessing of nature. Tsuyu (rainy season) rainfall was especially vital to the healthy growth of rice plants and, with a sense of appreciation, people created architectural designs for aesthetic presentation of rain," he says. Thatched or tiled roofs hold rain water and let it evaporate slowly. Black pebbles used for splash-stopping under the eaves glisten beautifully when they are wet, while thick foliage in gardens and along the streets retain rainwater, so allowing the natural cycle to run its course.

In creating his house, Suzuki was inspired by many elements of traditional design. For instance, there is the beautiful example of rainwater dripping from eaves at the Gepparo House in the Katsura Detached Palace in Kyoto. The bamboo bench over the second-floor pool is an idea borrowed from the decks built to dine out on in summer in Kyoto, with the cooling waters of the Kamo or Kibune rivers flowing below.

The Suzukis concede that such customized design added to the house's construction cost. However, they're in no doubt that this is more than offset by the uninterrupted pleasure they derive from their home.

Another who didn't balk at spending a little more to get a lot more pleasure from precipitation was fellow architect Akihiko Kuroiwa who, also in 1989, designed a glass-walled coffee shop by a pond in Nagano. To allow the pond to flood in heavy rain, so customers could best enjoy the ebb and flow of natural changes, the shop is built on triangular stilts.

Ideas such as these have been a slowly growing trend since the 1970s, and the ideas and techniques they embody are increasingly being adopted by those involved in designing public facilities such as museums and libraries.

In 1996, however, Suzuki and some colleagues from the Architectural Institute of Japan in Tokyo who shared a keen interest in ecological sustainability, started a "rainwater working group." Inviting participants from diverse backgrounds, the group meets regularly for multidisciplinary studies of architectural and urban designs to promote a "rain-friendly" lifestyle. The results of their often heated discussions, their field research and propositions for projects were compiled into a book, titled "Ame-no Kenchikugaku (Architecture for Enjoying Rain)," published by Ho- kuto Shuppan, Inc. in 2000.