SCULPTURE AND CARVING
Like the sister art of painting, the art of sculpture arose in Japan
with the coming of the Buddhist priests from Korea in the sixth
century. But though both existed together in the great Buddhist
monasteries the latter seemed for the first few hundred years to
entirely eclipse the former, for the first great products of Buddhist
art in Japan were seen in the figures carved in wood or cast in bronze
which adorned the shrines of the temples.
Time, too, has dealt less severely with these relics, or rather, less
perishable in their nature, they have been better able to survive the
dangers that so often swept away the frailer kakemonos of the painter,
and in many of the old temples are preserved the works of these early
sculptors. Such statues were rarely or never in stone, but either of
wood--which material always seems as plastic as clay in the hands of
the Japanese craftsman--or cast in bronze. Why this should have been it
is difficult to say. Perhaps the lack of a suitable stone at hand, and
the difficulty of transporting large and heavy blocks long distances in
a rough and hilly country, had something to do with the matter. In any
case, wood and bronze were at first entirely used for the work. Some
centuries later a fine grey clay, found at Nara, mixed with vegetable
fibre, like the bricks of Egypt, and, like them, hardened without
baking, came into use. Another interesting method of working was the
covering over with thin lacquer, mixed with powdered bark, a model made
of coarse cloth stiffened with glue. Works in both these last styles
were frequently gilded or painted.
Arising in India, Buddhist art spread northward with the spread of
the creed through China to Korea, and as it went farther north its
characteristics were largely altered and moulded by the different
types of the northern Buddhists. The Hindu sensitiveness gave place
to a Chinese solidity, which, again, was mellowed and softened by the
gentler influences of Korea.
The early Buddhist altar-pieces of Japan are marked by a sweet and
dignified serenity. Unlike the great Greek sculptures, they do not
represent the ideal of the natural human form, but rather endeavour to
express in terms of the human form an abstract or spiritual beauty.
Their figures are personifications of abstract qualities--Reason, Pity,
Charity, Fortitude, Beauty, Divine Love, for the northern Buddhist
doctrine was a gentle one; the world was not a hopeless dream, as in
the Hindu form, but a storehouse of forms to be idealised.
The temple of Horiuji at Nara, the first Buddhist temple built in
Japan, is one of the richest of all in art treasures, and contains many
fine examples of the old work. One of the earliest known specimens
there is a life-sized seated figure of Kwannon, said to be the work of
Prince Shotoku himself, and, in any case, dating from about the end of
the sixth century. The figure is nude from the waist upwards, and is
modelled with great severity of style, so that the anatomical forms
are almost lost; but this, with the simplicity of the drapery, only
concentrates the attention on the serene dignity of the expression, and
adds to the power and impressiveness of the statue.
During the seventh century there arose at Nara a school of bronze
casters, who produced a number of beautiful altar-pieces, more than a
hundred of which still exist. They are of small size, varying from
six inches to three feet in height, and in delicacy of modelling and
elegance of style they far surpass any of the Indian, Chinese, or
Korean work. The triumph of the school is seen in a little group of
three at Horiuji: a seated Buddha with two standing figures, backed by
a richly-wrought folding screen.
It is a beautiful piece of work, the lines graceful and flowing, the
modelling subtle and of exquisite finish. Perhaps the finest part of
all is the openwork halo, pierced with a floral design, behind the head
of the central figure. In its own way this group, executed about 680
A.D., is one of the gems of Japanese art.
Towards the end of the seventh century a wave of Greek feeling, which
had slowly spread from India and had produced what was known as the
Greco-Buddhist art, reached Japan, and its influence is seen in a
certain ampler sense of human dignity and proportion absent in the
earlier works. In 695 A.D. an attempt was made to cast three large
bronze figures of about twelve feet high, but it was a failure. In 715
A.D., however, Giogi, who ranks among Japan’s greatest sculptors,
successfully cast an altarpiece for the temple of Yakushiji, Nara, of
even greater dimensions--a trinity of a seated Buddha and two standing
figures. In the opinion of many this work represents the culmination of
the art of bronze casting in Japan. For largeness of conception, easy
grace and elegance of pose, richness and beauty of finish, it has never
been surpassed.
[Illustration: COLOSSAL BRONZE IMAGE OF A BODHISATWA
(_South Kensington Museum_)]
But a still more astonishing development was yet to come in the
colossal bronzes, which exceed in size any other pieces of casting the
world has seen. The largest of all, a seated Buddha, is at Nara, and,
no less than fifty-three feet in height, is the greatest bronze statue
that has ever been cast. A figure of great dignity, it has, however,
suffered much by the lapse of years. The head was damaged by an
earthquake in 855 A.D., and later by a fire, and was finally replaced
by another in the sixteenth century. Much finer as a work of art,
though slightly smaller, being forty-nine feet seven inches in height,
is the Daibutsu, or Great Buddha, at Kamakura, which is considerably
later in date, the best judges placing it at 1252. The seated figure,
with hands folded in contemplation, is of almost oppressive dignity and
power. The modelling is simple and severe, the drapery hangs in large
ample folds, and the face bears an expression of profound and majestic
calm. In the history of art we have met such an expression before;
there is something akin to it in the strange, inscrutable smile of the
Sphinx. But the calm of the Buddha has a deeper and more spiritual
quality: it is the calm of perfect knowledge; it speaks of the conquest
of human passions and a spiritual peace elevated far above all earthly
things.
The statue was originally surrounded by a building fifty yards square,
the roof supported by sixty-three massive pillars; but this shelter was
swept away by a tidal wave in 1369, and again in 1494. Since the latter
date it has not been rebuilt, though the stone foundations may still be
seen. In the rather irreverent phrase of the Japanese, the Daibutsu has
become a “wet god.”
The process of casting these colossal bronzes is not known in detail.
In all probability a full-sized model was first built up, and from
it the mould made in several pieces. The Kamakura Daibutsu is formed
of sheets of bronze, each cast separately, then brazed together, and
finished on the outside with the chisel.
With the decline of this old Buddhist work in bronze appeared another
phase of the sculptor’s art, which continued to a much later date, and
exhibited a different side of the national character. I refer to the
grotesque figures of gods or demons which are so characteristic of
early Japanese carving. These vary in size from a few inches to between
twenty and thirty feet in height, and are chiefly executed in wood,
several pieces being joined together in the larger works.
The most famous exponent of the school was Unkei, who lived at the end
of the twelfth, and beginning of the thirteenth century. At the gateway
of the temple of To-Dai-ji at Nara stood a pair of Nio, or Temple
Guardians--huge figures of sinister aspect and terrific power, hewn out
of wood--the one by Unkei, the other by Kwaikei, his contemporary. It
is said that after Unkei’s death the king of the nether world objected
that, whereas the sculptor had many times endeavoured to depict him, he
had never succeeded in doing him justice. Accordingly, Unkei was sent
back to the earth that, having seen the god himself, he might carve his
portrait faithfully.
Though on a small scale, only standing two and a half feet high, a
pair of little wooden demons by Koben, the third son of Unkei, exhibit
the same grotesqueness, combined with an almost terrible power. The
masterly representation of the straining muscles shows clearly that
the Japanese artist could model the human figure realistically when he
pleased, and that when he conventionalised he did so knowingly, and for
a given purpose, as has been the custom of the decorative artist from
time immemorial.
The third phase, which marks the early sculptures, is the series of
portrait statues, chiefly carved in wood, and it is curious to know
that most of these extremely realistic studies were executed during
the highly idealistic Buddhist period. The statues of two saints, for
instance, Asanga and Vasubandhu, in Kofukuji, which are said to date
from the eighth century, are absolutely realistic in style. The drapery
certainly is treated in a broad and simple manner, but the face and
expression is obviously a portrait, a study of an individual. Many
of these portraits exist, dating chiefly from the eighth to about the
thirteenth century, and are all strong and characteristic presentments
of actual men--speaking likenesses.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SENNO RIKIU,
CARVED IN WOOD AND LACQUERED
(_British Museum_)]
Towards the end of the thirteenth century the sculptor’s art gradually
fell into disuse, the traditions of the craft only surviving in the
beautiful carving which adorned the temple buildings, but which
was looked on not as the work of an artist but merely as that of a
carpenter.
The legitimate successor of the old sculptors appeared some hundreds
of years later, and not as the maker of colossal images and life-sized
portraits, but as the netsuké carver, the greatest master of the art
of _multum in parvo_ that the world has seen. In the narrow field
of a cubic inch or so the sculptor, for he is no less, combines a
largeness of conception with a breadth and vigour of execution which
are absolutely astonishing. But there is between the old Buddhist
sculptor and the netsuké and okimono carver the same difference which
divides the painter of the old classic schools from the more modern
exponent of the Ukioyé-Riu--the change from the ideal point of view to
the material. The art of the netsuké carver, often bold and vigorous,
sometimes elaborately finished, is always frankly realistic.
The netsuké (pronounced netské) is a toggle or button varying in size,
but often little larger than a marble. The Japanese gentleman in native
costume has no pockets other than his wide sleeves, and so his pipe and
tobacco pouch, his inro or medicine-box, and other small objects, are
carried slung by a cord to his girdle, like a chatelaine. At the end of
the cord was the netsuké, which prevented the objects from slipping to
the ground.
It is said that the use of the netsuké dates from the fifteenth
century, but the great majority have been made within the last two
hundred years. In the opinion of the expert the finest specimens date
from the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As the nineteenth
century advanced a loss of breadth in the treatment is observable, with
a greater elaboration of detail, and this tendency caused the gradual
degeneration of the art, until it became little more than a wonderful
exhibition of perfect manual skill, lacking the life which breathed in
the older work.
The netsuké is made of various materials, of which the two chief
are wood and ivory, and is pierced with one or more holes for the
passage of the cord. In the eyes of the connoisseur the wooden
specimens are generally the most valuable; and justly so, for not
only are the Japanese most masterly artists in wood, but the material
lends itself to a freer and bolder style of work than the harder and
unsympathetic ivory, retaining the slightest impression of the artist’s
individuality. Between the two there is much the same difference
as between the free and spontaneous clay sketch of the sculptor,
recording the very print of his fingers, and the coldly severe and more
pretentious marble.
Still, it must be admitted that even in ivory the Japanese carver
attained in a wonderful degree the qualities of freshness and ease
which we are accustomed to look for only in more ductile materials.
The shape and size of the netsuké is regulated by the purpose for which
it is intended. It must be large enough not to slip through the girdle,
and we usually find that they range from about the size of a walnut to
nearly three times that size. Any excrescences or projections would,
of course, be liable to snap off, and so, especially in the older
specimens, the outline is generally rounded, and without sharp angles.
The holes through which the cord passes are often ingeniously made to
form part of the design. The fact that many netsukés were also used as
seals, and also that so many early examples are of triangular form, so
as to stand firmly on their base, is looked on by some authorities as
evidence that the netsuké was evolved from the seal.
Often the wood used was coloured, lacquered, and gilt. Sometimes wood
and ivory were combined, often ivory and metal, but almost every
material was used on occasion. Porcelain netsukés were not uncommon,
and gold, silver, jet, coral, and enamel were all applied to the
ornamentation of the netsuké.
The Kagami-buta were buttons of metal with a shank at the back. This
was enclosed in a circular hollow dish of ivory or wood, which had a
hole in the back through which the cord attached to the shank passed.
These examples are often very beautiful, the combination of the metal
centre, often chased and adorned with gold and silver, with the plain
outer ring of ivory being very pleasing in effect.
The Manju netsuké, a round, flattened disc, so called from its
resemblance to a Manju, or rice cake, is another well-known form.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF NETSUKÉS
(_British Museum_)]
As to subject, the whole field of Japanese mythology, history, and
literature is recorded in their netsuké. Perhaps the finest of
all are the miniature representations of the masks used in the No
dance--sometimes beautiful, sometimes comical, often grotesque, but
always artistic. Then we have the beautifully finished carvings of
insects; snakes twisted in lifelike coils; a goose with its bill
caught in a closed clam shell, and vainly flapping its wings; fishes,
tortoises, mice--all varieties of animal life: it is a veritable
illustrated natural history. Then in lifelike groups we have the whole
world of legendary folklore laid before us. The Tongue-cut sparrow,
Motomoro the peach child, and many other old fairy tales, are here
retold; while men and women in all the occupations of their trades and
callings give an epitome of contemporary Japanese life.
The names of the famous netsuké carvers are too numerous to record
here. One of the most celebrated was Shuzan, who lived early in the
eighteenth century, a volume of whose designs was published in 1781.
Of late years, since the use of the netsuké has begun to die out, the
carver has turned his attention to okimono--small pieces not pierced
for the cord, and intended merely as cabinet ornaments. Many of these
little ivories are exquisitely beautiful. European work, even of the
best, looks weak and poor beside them; and even the best Chinese
carving, though perhaps equally dexterous in manipulation, seems
dull and mechanical contrasted with their never-failing fertility of
imagination.
[Illustration: Rider on Horseback]