METAL WORK
We have already treated, with some fulness, of the beautiful bronze
statues which adorned the old Buddhist temples; but though his highest
achievement, these represent only a small part of the work of the
Japanese bronze caster. The old temple bells, the incense burners, the
great temple lanterns, all were of exquisite workmanship. And the art
was also applied to domestic uses, the ordinary cooking utensils, the
more ornamental vases, and the dainty bronze mirrors being but a few of
its products.
One of the finest and oldest bells is at the temple of To-Dai-ji at
Nara. Cast in 732 A.D., it stands 13 feet 6 inches high, the diameter
across the rim is 9 feet 1 inch, while the weight of metal is over
forty tons.
The method of ringing such a bell is different from that to which we
are accustomed. Instead of a loose tongue hung inside, a heavy swing
beam is mounted outside the bell, which it strikes on the rim. The
vibrations of each stroke are allowed to die away ere the next is
struck, and the great waves of sound go pealing for miles over the
quiet countryside.
The casting of a temple bell was made the occasion of a great
religious festival. A large kiln was built, worshippers attended from
all the surrounding country, women casting their ornaments into the
melting-pot. The priests announced with a loud voice the successful
accomplishment of each stage of the work, and the concluding operations
took place amid scenes of great rejoicings.
At To-Dai-ji is also a very fine specimen of a temple lantern,
ornamented with beautiful openwork panels; while at the temple of
Kofukuji, Nara, is a masterly piece of bronze in the shape of a musical
instrument, a sort of gong, called the Kwagen-Kei, surrounded by four
twining dragons--a most fantastic but vigorous piece of modelling.
The mirrors of polished bronze are said to have been first cast in
the reign of Keiko, about 100 A.D. They are of two kinds--the first
fitted with a handle, or with a stand of metal or carved wood; and
the second much smaller, often not more than four inches in diameter,
with a hole at the back through which a cord passed. The face was
burnished, and the back beautifully wrought in designs of great
delicacy.
[Illustration: TWO BOWLS OF CAST BRONZE (18TH CENTURY)
(_South Kensington Museum_)]
The method of casting employed in these and similar articles, which
is still characteristic of Japanese work, was as follows:--An exact
model of the object, with the ornamentation complete as in the finished
article, was made in wax. A slip was then prepared with very fine sand,
clay, and water, and the model carefully coated with the mixture,
special care being taken to run it into all the hollow places, so that
a complete skin covered the wax at every part. When the first coat
dried another was added, and another and another, a slightly thicker
paste being used for each successive coat. A coarser and stronger
mixture was used for the outer layers, till the model was encased in
a hard, solid crust. Vent holes were then drilled and the wax melted
out. After being carefully heated the moulds were ready to receive the
molten metal, which was then poured in. When the casting was cold the
moulds were broken off and the metal exposed to view. This system not
only ensured individuality in the work, a fresh mould being made for
each piece, but allowed of a depth of modelling and under-cutting which
would have been impossible had the mould been in pieces to be drawn
apart and afterwards used again.
The metal work of Japan may be conveniently grouped in three classes.
First, the early work characterised by extreme elegance, ornament being
used sparingly, though with great taste and often marvellous vigour.
Then comes a middle period, dating from the coming of the Tokugawa
dynasty at the end of the sixteenth century, when a class of work
highly ornamented and rich in detail came into vogue. And, lastly, we
have the more modern naturalistic school, wonderful in technique, but
lacking the inspiration of the older styles, and beside it appearing
dull and commonplace.
South Kensington Museum is particularly rich in Japanese metal work,
especially bronzes, of all these styles. There are several fine temple
lanterns, notably one pair, standing about eight feet high, of very
elegant design, and ornamented with great reticence and taste. A
smaller pair, evidently later in date, contain some wonderful casting,
but in their more ornate quality lack the dignity of the first pair.
A piece much esteemed by some critics is the large Koro, or incense
burner, of quite modern work, cast in 1878--a life-sized study of
peacocks, doves, and sparrows. It is certainly a wonderful piece
of realism. The poses are natural, the texture of the feathers is
imitated in the unyielding metal with marvellous fidelity, single
plumes standing out in full relief; but, placed beside the best old
work, the whole thing seems trivial and even vulgar. The birds are
lifelike to just this extent: if they were only coloured we should
think they were stuffed specimens. But from the true artist we get
more than this camera-like reproduction of nature; he can also give us
the spirit. Turn from this case to the Miochin eagle beside it. As a
piece of realism it is worthy to compare with the other, but how much
more it conveys. There is a marvellous poise about the bird, a vigour
and sweep of line that makes it live and breathe the intense ferocity
of its nature. It is alive, while the other merely irritates by its
close resemblance to life. Of iron, partly cast and partly made up
of hammered plates, it is the work of Miochin Muneharu, a member of
the famous Miochin family of armourers, and dates from the sixteenth
century.
The smaller pieces in the collection--the vases, trays, bowls, and
candlesticks--are also well worthy of study, and illustrate the same
tendency--the older work charming by its stately simplicity, and
sometimes also by its vigorous treatment of the grotesque; the modern
apt to become a mass of exquisitely executed decorations of a highly
naturalistic but rather trivial nature.
But in the early years of Japan the implements of war chiefly occupied
the attention of the metal worker, and during the bitter civil wars
that devastated the country the swordsmith and the armourer became
persons of great importance.
The famous family of Miochin has been associated with the making of
arms and armour as far back as records extend. An authentic member of
the family, Masuda Munemori, wrought helmets and armour in 75 A.D.;
and, further back still, there is the legendary founder of the line,
who is said to be the grandson of the god Takara himself, who taught
him the art of working in metals. From the twelfth to the eighteenth
centuries they held the position of armourers to the Court.
[Illustration: THE MIOCHIN EAGLE
Cast and Hammered Iron, 16th century
(_South Kensington Museum_)]
The armour of the Miochins was formed of thin iron plates, very light,
but wonderfully strong. One specimen, a helmet of the sixteenth
century, though 12 inches in length, 10 in width, and 8 in height, only
weighs 2 lbs. 2 oz. The usual shape of helmet was a domelike headpiece,
strengthened with ridges of iron plates, while flaps formed of a number
of narrow plates hung at the sides, and covered the back of the neck.
From the centre, just above the forehead, rose two curious curved
horns, called tsunomoto, and between them was worn the crest of the
warrior. In a famous suit of Miochin armour of the twelfth century the
helmet has a dragon worked in repoussé coiling round it, the head, with
open mouth, glaring from between the tsunomoto, while the tail forms
the spike on the top. Although wrought in so hard a metal as iron the
dragon’s head stands up in relief at least an inch from the background.
Similar work in repoussé adorns the breastplate and armpieces.
But much of the finest work of the Japanese metal worker is found in
the two-handed swords, which were the chief weapon of the soldiers,
and which, in feudal times, became the distinctive mark of the
Samurai, the aristocratic military class. The Japanese blades are
unsurpassed by the most famous swords of Damascus, India, and Persia,
and the craft of the swordsmith was looked on as the most honourable of
all handicrafts. Men of aristocratic birth often took up its duties,
and the famous swordmakers had the highest titles conferred upon
them. The name of the greatest of them all--Masamuné--passed into the
language as a term signifying supreme excellence, for a Masamuné blade
was unequalled, and would sever a floating hair carried against its
edge by the gentle current of a stream, or cleave through a solid bar
of iron.
The sword, indeed, was the centre of the old military life of Japan.
To know its history, its etiquette, was part of the education of all
Samurai youths, and it was a grand moment for them when, at the age of
fifteen, they entered on man’s estate and girded on the coveted weapon.
A fine sword was handed down from father to son as an heirloom; it was
their most cherished possession, and especially in the more peaceful
times which followed the establishment of the Tokugawa dynasty it was
enriched with the finest work that art could produce.
The forging of a sword was conducted with almost the solemnity
attending a religious rite. The katanya, or swordsmith, fasted for days
before, and when all was prepared he went to the temple and prayed for
a blessing on his work. In the forge was hung a consecrated rope of
straw and clippings of paper to drive away evil spirits; and, having
first propitiated the five elements--fire, water, wood, metal, and
earth--the smith donned the ceremonial robes of a Court noble, and,
binding back the wide sleeves, was ready to take hammer in hand.
First a strip of steel is welded to a bar of iron, which serves as a
handle; other strips are placed upon it, and it is wrought into a bar
of the required dimensions. Carefully coated with a paste of clay and
ashes, and never touched with the naked hand, this bar is heated in the
charcoal furnace, notched in the middle with a chisel, doubled over,
and then beaten out to its former size and shape. This folding process
is repeated fifteen times, then four such bars are welded together, and
the doubling and welding repeated five more times, so that if each
bar consisted first of all of four flakes this has now been increased
to 16,777,216 layers of metal. Many different textures are obtained by
flattening the bar in different manners, some giving the appearance of
a grain as in wood. The preparatory welding being finished, the blade
is then drawn out to its full length, shaped, and roughly ground.
But the most critical part of the process, the tempering of the steel,
is now to come. And the peculiar combination required--an extremely
hard edge, with the rest of the blade soft and tough--the Japanese
swordsmith, unlike others, produces in one operation instead of two.
The blade is coated with a mixture of fine clay and powdered charcoal.
This covering is then scraped away along the edge, leaving exposed a
strip of metal about a quarter of an inch wide. Raised in the furnace
to the required heat, the blade glowing dull red while the edge is
white hot, the sword is then plunged into a bath of water at a certain
temperature, and the operation is finished.
The process of tempering was always conducted by the forger himself,
no one else being allowed to enter the precincts of the forge, so
jealously were his professional secrets guarded. It is said that a
famous swordsmith paid for this knowledge by the loss of his hand. He
had learned all but the heat of the tempering bath, and this vital
secret his master refused to impart to him, so at the critical moment
he burst into the forge and plunged his hand into the water. The
furious master struck off his hand with one blow of the unfinished
sword, but the apprentice had learned his secret.
The old smiths used to sing while tempering a blade, and the spirit
of the music was said to enter into the metal. Masamuné chanted a
refrain: “Tenku, taihei, taihei”--“Peace be on earth, peace”--and his
swords never failed their owner, but always bore him to victory. But
the blades of his saturnine pupil Muramasa always brought trouble with
them. Their owners were ever in quarrels, and, once unsheathed, the
sword was never satisfied without blood, so that it could not even be
handled with safety. The reason for this was that, as he tempered the
blades, Muramasa sang grimly: “Tenku tairan, tenku tairan”--“Trouble in
the world, trouble in the world.”
After tempering, the blade was slowly ground on a series of
whetstones, getting finer and finer, finishing with a careful polishing
with stone-powder, and oil.
A volume might be written on the decoration of the sword. The tsuba
or guard, the handle of the ko-katana or little knife, carried in the
side of the scabbard; the fuchi and kashira, or mounts of the handle,
especially were marked by the most exquisite ornamentation.
In his knowledge of the properties of different metals and their
alloys, and in his combinations of these for one general effect, the
Japanese metal worker is unique. Many of the alloys used by him were
quite unknown to us, and were chosen chiefly for their colours. For the
metal workers’ designs were in reality colour studies, and in metal he
possessed a palette of really astonishing variety. For black he had
shakudo, a rich, deep tint, flashing in some lights a violet blue.
Oxidised iron gave a very dark brown, almost black, and also a rich
chocolate colour. Light browns, running from coffee colour to saffron
yellow, were obtained from different kinds of bronze. Copper gave a
deep ruddy tint, coban and other combinations of gold and silver a pale
greenish yellow, gold a rich, full yellow, shibu-ichi a dull grey,
while white was obtained by the use of silver or polished steel.
In South Kensington there is a vase, a very fine specimen of this work
in colours. The vase itself, beautifully shaped, is of iron, a warm
chocolate brown. On this is inlaid a graceful design of birds and
flowers, gleaming and sparkling in gold and silver, copper colour,
green, blue, and violet.
In sword mountings this style of decoration was extensively used, and
effects of great richness and beauty were obtained.
The tsuba, or sword guard, is a flat plate of metal, usually circular
or slightly elliptical in form; but other styles, such as diamonds,
squares, octagons, and irregular shapes decided by the exigencies of
the design, are not uncommon. In size they vary from three to four
inches in diameter, according to the size of the sword, and weigh from
two to three ounces. The tsuba usually contains three openings--the
central one wedge-shaped, through which the tang of the blade passes,
and two other smaller openings, one on each side, to allow for the
passage of the kozuka and kogai to their sheaths in the sides of the
scabbard.
The earliest guards were made entirely of iron, and in many later
tsuba this still forms the basis. But bronze in its various forms was
also much used as a ground for ornamentation; and an alloy, sentoku,
containing copper, zinc, tin, and lead, and of a soft yellow tint like
brass, was another favourite material. In the latest periods other
substances, such as bone, ivory, tortoiseshell, wood, leather, and
papier-maché, the last three being coated with lacquer, were sometimes
used.
One of the earliest methods of ornamenting the iron tsuba was what is
known as kebori, or hair-line chasing. This was not executed with a
graving tool but with a small chisel held in the left hand, and driven
towards the worker with blows from a light hammer. This style of
ornament reached its height during the sixteenth century, and may be
seen in great perfection in the work of Goto Yujo.
A development of this style was the hira-zogan. In this lines were
first engraved to a uniform depth and then undercut. Soft gold or
silver wire was then hammered in, the wedge-shaped opening retaining it
firmly without the use of any solder. Kebori-zogan was a combination of
the two styles.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF TSUBAS
(_From the Collection of Mr M. Tomkinson_)]
The kata-kiri-bori style depended for its effect not on the inlay
of different metals but on designs in relief or intaglio. Often the
design was defined by piercing, and the detail brought out by chasing
and modelling in relief. In most cases the work was entirely that of
the chisel and the hammer, untouched by any subsequent grinding or
polishing.
In the kata-kiri-bori-zogan style--figured, sculptured, and encrusted
work--we find the latest and most elaborate productions of the more
modern schools, enamels being also used to add richness to the effect.
The iron, which forms the most usual material, is of exceedingly fine
quality and of unusual softness. In many cases it was left rough
from the hammer and punch, the marks, seemingly so careless, forming
essential parts of the decoration. Etching with acids was sometimes
adopted to bring out into greater prominence the twists and foldings of
the wrought iron. In some cases, also, a surface grained like wood was
obtained by welding together many strips of iron of different qualities
and then treating with acid, which, of course, affected more strongly
the softer layers.
It is doubtful when the tsuba first began to be an object of art, no
specimens of an earlier date than the fourteenth century existing even
in representations. Most of the tsubas on the older swords are much
more modern than the blades to which they are attached. In the olden
times, when the Samurai fell into evil days, he sometimes stripped
off and sold the rich embellishments of his sword, retaining only the
trusty blade.
Kaneiye, who worked about the end of the fourteenth century, is
regarded as the first maker of tsubas artistically ornamented.
In the fifteenth century were produced many iron tsubas decorated with
saw-cut silhouettes of birds, leaves, or animals, and with hammer or
punch marks. Those last were probably the work of armourers, as in the
case of Nobuiye of the Miochin family, whose iron tsubas were greatly
valued. Some of these are of openwork, some with heads or masks in
relief, others with punch marks. Another of the most famous workers in
iron is Umetada, who lived about the middle of the seventeenth century.
Another of the fathers of the art was Goto Yujo, the founder of the
Goto school, who lived between 1434 and 1512, and often worked from the
designs of the painter Kano Motonobu. By this school, it is said, was
introduced the peculiar ground of raised dots known as manako, or fish
roe ground, and also the free use of gold, the excess of which marred
so much their later work.
To the sixteenth century belong most of the beautiful specimens of
saw-cut work in iron, chrysanthemums, kiri, and other crests being
the favourite motives, though a number of conventional floral designs
showing a strong Portuguese influence are also found.
In the early part of the seventeenth century the use of enamel in the
ornament of the tsuba was introduced by Hirata Donin, and continued to
be characteristic of the work of the Hirata family till the present
century.
The time which produced much of the finest work of all is known as
the Joken-in period, 1681-1708--the rule of the Shogun Tokugawa
Tsuneyoshi--perhaps the most famous artist being Somin, who worked
largely from the designs of the Kano painter Hanabusa Itcho. About this
time the wonderful palette of colours in metal came into full use,
and the range of subjects became more and more varied. As in the case
of netsuké, so in tsuba one may read the whole history, legends, and
mythology of Japan.
But the art had now passed its zenith, and a gradual degeneration set
in, the work produced in later years being rich and ornate, but lacking
the distinction of the earlier schools.
A few words must be said of the kozuka, the handle of the small
knife, called the ko-katana, which is sheathed in the scabbard of
the wakizashi, or short sword. The kozuka contains much beautiful
ornamentation, and from its more sheltered position this is often of
greater delicacy than that applied to the tsuba. The manner in which
the problem of filling the long, narrow field is solved is a perpetual
source of charm to the student of design.
The fuchi, or ferule, at the lower end of the handle of the sword, and
the kashira, its lozenge-shaped cap, are also finely ornamented, the
two combined usually forming one design.
South Kensington Museum has a varied collection of sword furniture,
including many fine specimens, but, unfortunately, probably from lack
of space, the objects are arranged in tall cases placed so closely face
to face as to render the study of their contents almost impossible
without the help of a candle.
[Illustration: Rider on Horseback]