The Significance of Japanese Art
Sir Alfred East, in lecturing on the subject of Japanese art, described
it as "great in small things, but small in great things," and this,
generally speaking, is very true. The Japanese artist excels in
depicting flowers and insects and birds. He is triumphant in portraying
the curl of a wave, a branch of cherry-blossom against a full moon, a
flight of heron, a group of pine-trees, and carp swimming in a stream;
but that genius for minute and accurate detail seems to have prevented
him from depicting what we understand as a great subject-picture,
an historical scene crowded with many figures. This zest to portray
various fragments from Nature was no narrow and academic affair. Art
was not intended solely for the _kakemono_, or hanging scroll, to be
suspended in the alcove of a Japanese home, to be admired for a time,
and then to be replaced by another. Art in Japan was universal to an
extent not to be found in any other country, where a cheap towel had a
pleasing design upon it, and where the playing cards, unlike our own,
were works of art.
It has been said that the woman in Japanese art is wooden. This is not
really so, if by wooden we mean entirely without expression; but it is
necessary first of all to know something about the Japanese woman in
actual life before we can understand her representation in art. There
is a wealth of old tradition behind that apparently immobile face. It
is a curious fact that until we get accustomed to the various Japanese
types one face so closely resembles another that discrimination is out
of the question, and we are apt to run away with the idea that Nature
in Japan has been content to repeat the same physiognomy over and over
again, forgetting that we in turn present no diversity of type to the
Japanese on first acquaintance. The Japanese face in art is not without
expression, only it happens to be an expression rather different
from that with which we are familiar, and this is particularly true
in regard to the portrayal of Japanese women. Most of us have seen a
number of colour-prints devoted to this subject in which we find no
shading in the face. We are apt to exclaim that this omission gives an
extremely flat effect to the face, and to observe in consequence that
the work before us must be very bad art. But it is not bad art, for the
Japanese face _is_ flat, and the artists of that country never fail to
reflect this characteristic. Colour-prints depicting Nipponese women
do not reveal emotion--a smile, a gesture of yearning, are absent; but
because we find so much negation we should be very far from the truth
to suppose that a colour-print of this kind expresses no feeling,
that the general effect is doll-like and uninteresting. We must take
into consideration the long period of suppression through which the
Japanese woman had to pass. A superficial study of that extraordinary
treatise by Kaibara known as _Onna Daigaku_, or "The Greater Learning
for Women," will help us to realise that it was the duty of every
Japanese woman to be sweet, amiable, virtuous; to obey those in
authority without demur, and above all to suppress her feelings. When
we have taken these points into consideration we shall very slowly
perceive that there is strength and not weakness in a portrait of a
Japanese woman; a quiet and dignified beauty in which impulse is held
in check, veiled, as it were, behind a cloud of rigid tradition. The
Japanese woman, though she has been surrounded at every turn by severe
discipline, has, nevertheless, given us a type of womanhood supreme
in her true sweetness of disposition, and the Japanese artist has
caught the glamour of her charm. In the curve of her form he suggests
the grace of a wind-blown willow, in the designs upon her robe the
promise of spring, and behind the small red mouth a wealth of infinite
possibilities.
Japan owed her art to Buddhism, and it was quickened and sustained by
Chinese influence. Buddhism gave Nippon her pictorial art, her mural
decoration and exquisite carving. Shintō temples were severe and plain,
those of Buddhism were replete with all that art could give them; and
last, but not least, it was Buddha's teaching that brought into Japan
the art of gardening, with all its elaborate and beautiful symbolism.
A Japanese art critic wrote: "If in the midst of a stroke a sword-cut
had severed the brush it would have bled." From this we may gather
that the Japanese artist put his whole heart into his work; it was a
part of him, something vital, something akin to religion itself. With
this great force behind his brush it is no wonder that he was able to
give that extraordinary life and movement to his work, so strikingly
depicted in portraits of actors.
Though we have so far only shown the Japanese artist as a master
of little things, he has, nevertheless, faithfully and effectively
represented the Gods and Goddesses of his country, and many of the
myths and legends connected with them. If he excelled in the beautiful,
he no less excelled in depicting the horrible, for no artists,
excepting those of China, have succeeded in portraying the supernatural
to more effect. What a contrast there is between an exquisite picture
of Jizō or Buddha or Kwannon and the pictorial representation of a
Japanese goblin! Extreme beauty and extreme ugliness are to be found in
Japanese art, and those who love the many pictures of Mount Fuji and
the moth-like colouring of Utamaru's women will turn in horror from the
ghastly representations of supernatural beings.
The Gods of Good Fortune
Many of the legendary stories given in this volume have been portrayed
by Japanese artists, and in the present chapter we propose to deal
with the legends in Japanese art not hitherto mentioned. The favourite
theme of the Japanese artist is undoubtedly that of the Seven Gods of
Good Fortune, nearly always treated with rollicking good-humour. There
was Fukurokuju, with a very long head, and attended by a crane, deer,
or tortoise; Daikoku, who stood upon rice-bales and was accompanied by
a rat; Ebisu, carrying a fish; Hotei, the merry God of Laughter, the
very embodiment of our phrase "Laugh and grow fat." There was Bishamon,
resplendent in armour, and bearing a spear and toy pagoda; Benten, the
Goddess of Beauty, Wealth, Fertility, and Offspring; while Jurōjin was
very similar to Fukurokuju. These Seven Gods of Good Fortune, or, to
be more accurate, six Gods and one Goddess, seem to have sprung from
Shintōism, Taoism, Buddhism, and Brahmanism, and apparently date from
the seventeenth century.
The Treasure Ship
In connection with this theme the Japanese artist is fond of portraying
the Gods of Good Fortune as jovial passengers on the _Takara-bune_, or
Treasure Ship, which is said to come to port on New Year's Eve, with no
less a cargo than the Hat of Invisibility, the Lucky Raincoat, coat,
the Sacred Key, the Inexhaustible Purse, and other curious and magical
treasures. At this time of the year pictures of the Treasure Ship are
placed under children's wooden pillows, and the practice is said to
bring a lucky dream.
"Sleep, my own, till the bell of dusk
Bring the stars laden with a dream.
With that dream you shall awake
Between the laughters and the song."
Yone Noguchi.
The Miraculous in Japanese Art
Among other legends is the story of Hidari Jingorō, the famous
sculptor, whose masterpiece came to life when finished, which reminds
us not a little of the story of Pygmalion. There are other legendary
stories connected with the coming to life of Japanese works of art.
On a certain occasion a number of peasants were much annoyed by the
destruction of their gardens caused by some wild animal. Eventually
they discovered that the intruder was a great black horse, and on
giving chase it suddenly disappeared into a temple. When they entered
the building they found Kanasoka's painting of a black steed steaming
with its recent exertion! The great artist at once painted in a rope
tethering the animal to a post, and from that day to this the peasants'
gardens have remained unmolested.
When the great artist Sesshiu was a little boy the story goes that he
was, by way of punishment, securely bound in a Buddhist temple. Using
his copious tears for ink and his toe for a brush, the little fellow
sketched some rats upon the floor. Immediately they came to life and
gnawed through the rope that bound their youthful creator.
Hokusai
There is something more than mere legend in these stories, if we
may believe the words of the famous artist Hokusai, whose "Hundred
Views of Fuji" are regarded as the finest examples of Japanese
landscape-painting. He wrote in his Preface to this work: "At ninety I
shall penetrate the mystery of things; at a hundred I shall certainly
have reached a marvellous stage; and when I am a hundred and ten
everything I do, be it a dot or a line, will be alive." Needless to
say, Hokusai did not reach the age of a hundred and ten. In his last
hours he wrote the following lines, which were afterwards inscribed
upon his tomb:
"My soul, turned Will-o'-the-wisp,
Can come and go at ease over the summer fields."
With that strong poetic feeling so characteristic of the Japanese,
Eternity meant for Hokusai an infinite time in which to carry on his
beloved work--to perfect, to make alive all the wonderful strokes of
his brush. As in ancient Egypt, so in Old Japan, the future life could
only mean real happiness with periodic visits to this world again,
and there is a subtle and almost pathetic paradox in this conception,
suggesting, as it were, the continual loading of Eternity with fresh
earthly memories. In both countries we find the spirit hankering after
old human haunts. In Egypt the soul returned through the medium of
its preserved body, and in Japan the Festival of the Dead, described
elsewhere, afforded a joyous exit from the world of Emma-Ō, a three
days' visit in the middle of July to Japan, a land more beautiful, more
dear, it would seem, than any Japanese conception of a future world.
But Hokusai appears to suggest that his visits would not be made merely
in the summer season--rather a frequent coming and going at all times
of the year.
A Japanese poet has written:
"It is an awesome thing
To meet a-wandering,
In the dark night,
The dark and rainy night,
A phantom greenish-grey,
Ghost of some wight,
Poor mortal wight!
Wandering
Lonesomely
Through
The black
Night."
Translated by Clara A. Walsh.
Ghosts and Goblins
It is scarcely less awesome to come across ghosts, goblins, and
other supernatural beings in a Japanese picture. We find ghosts
with long necks supporting horribly leering faces. Their necks are
so long that it would seem that the ghastly heads could look above
and into everything with a fiendish and dreadful relish. The ghoul,
though represented in Japanese art as a three-year-old child, has
reddish-brown hair, very long ears, and is often depicted as eating
the kidneys of dead people. The horrible in this phase of Japanese art
is emphasised to an almost unbearable degree, and a living Japanese
artist's conception of a procession of ghosts[1] is so uncanny,
so weird, that we certainly should not like to meet them in broad
daylight, much less "through the dark night!"
A Garden of Skulls
The Japanese artist's conception of a garden, with its pine-trees,
and stone lanterns, and azalea-bordered lakes, is usually extremely
beautiful. Hiroshige, like so many Japanese artists, has painted a
garden touched with snow; but in one of his pictures he portrays
the snow as turning into a number of skulls, and has borrowed this
fantastic conception from the _Heike Monogatari_.
It must not be thought that the Japanese artist, when portraying some
supernatural being, or in depicting some scene from a legendary story,
exclusively catches the grim and horrible. The grim and horrible are
certainly portrayed with considerable spirit and dramatic force, but
many of the Japanese works of art depict the Gods and Goddesses of Old
Japan with much grace and charm.
The Dream of Rose[2]
Japanese ornament frequently illustrates some ancient legend. We may
see on a certain _tsuba_ (sword-guard) a pine-tree with people sitting
in the branches. One man carries a banner, while two others are playing
on musical instruments. There is an exquisite legend connected with
this quaint design, and, though it is of Chinese origin, it deserves
to find a place in this volume because it is one of those fantastic
Chinese legends that has been woven into Japanese literature and
art--has become, in short, one of the favourite themes of Japanese
artists, and of those who witness the _No_, or lyrical drama, of Nippon.
Rosei, in ancient times, reached the little inn of Kantan, so weary
with his travel that he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the
pillow. It was no ordinary pillow, but might well be described as
the Magic Pillow of Dreams, for directly Rosei was asleep an envoy
approached him, and said: "I am sent by the Emperor of Ibara to inform
you that his Majesty wishes to relinquish the throne and to install you
in his place. Be pleased to enter the palanquin that awaits you, and
the bearers will quickly carry you to the capital."
Rosei, much amazed by what he had heard and seen, entered the
palanquin, "strewn with gems of radiant hue," and was borne to a
wonderful country, best described in the following verse:
"For ne'er in those old vasty halls Imperial,
Bath'd in the moonbeams bright,
Or where the dragon soars on clouds ethereal,
Was ought like this to entrance the sight:
With golden sand and silvern pebbles white
Was strewn the floor;
And at the corners four,
Through gates inlaid
With diamonds and jade,
Pass'd throngs whose vestments were of radiant light,--
So fair a scene,
That mortal eye might ween
It scann'd the very heav'ns' unknown delight.
Here countless gifts the folk came bearing,
Precious as myriad coins of finest gold;
And there, the lesser with the greater sharing,
Advanc'd the vassals bold,
Their banners to display
That paint the sky with colours gay,
While rings the air as had a thunder roll'd."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.
Rosei found himself in a magical country where Nature either forgot her
natural laws or was led into fresh wonders by the people of that land.
In the east there was a silver hill over which the gold sun shone, and
in the west there was a gold hill over which the moon shone.
"No spring and autumn mark the time,
And o'er that deathless gate
The sun and moon their wonted speed forget."
Trans, by B. H. Chamberlain.
The whole idea of this charming story seems to suggest that this
country was not only a land of eternal youth, but a land, too, where
Nature marshalled her seasons together, where there were always colour
and blossom, and where no flower faded.
When Rosei had lived and reigned for fifty years in this glorious
country a minister came to him one day and bade him drink of the Elixir
of Life, in order that he might, like his subjects, live for ever.
The monarch drank the Elixir, "'Mid dazzling pomp and joys more
ravishing than e'er before were shower'd on mortal sight." Rosei
believed that he had cheated Death of his due, and lived the life
of poetic, if sensuous, ecstasy. He gave sumptuous feasts to his
courtiers, feasts which saw the sun and moon without intermission,
where lovely maidens danced, and where there were endless music and
song.
It so happened, however, that these joyous feasts, these pageants of
colour, were not endless after all, for eventually Rosei awoke to find
himself resting upon "Kantan's pillow." The moralist steps in at this
juncture with the following:
"But he that ponders well
Will find all life the self-same story tell,--
That, when death comes, a century of bliss
Fades like a dream."
Trans. by B. H. Chamberlain.
Rosei, after this fantastic experience, came to the conclusion that
"life is a dream," that ambition is a dream too, and, having accepted
this Buddhistic teaching, he returned to his own home.
A Kakemono Ghost[3]
Sawara was a pupil in the house of the artist Tenko, who was a kind and
able master, while Sawara, even at the commencement of his art studies,
showed considerable promise. Kimi, Tenko's niece, devoted her time to
her uncle and in directing the affairs of the household generally. Kimi
was beautiful, and it was not long before she fell desperately in love
with Sawara. This young pupil regarded her as very charming, one to
die for if need be, and in his heart he secretly loved her. His love,
however, unlike Kimi's, was not demonstrative, for he had his work to
attend to, and so, to be sure, had Kimi; but work with Sawara came
before his love, and with Kimi it was only love that mattered.
One day, when Tenko was paying a visit, Kimi came to Sawara, and,
unable to restrain her feelings any longer, told him of her love, and
asked him if he would like to marry her. Having made her request, she
set tea before her lover, and awaited his answer.
Sawara returned her affection, and said that he would be delighted to
marry her, adding, however, that marriage was not possible until after
two or three years, when he had established a position for himself and
had become a famous artist.
Sawara, in order to add to his knowledge of art, decided to study
under a celebrated painter named Myokei, and, everything having been
arranged, he bade farewell to his old master and Kimi, promising that
he would return as soon as he had made a name for himself and become a
great artist.
Two years went by and Tenko and Kimi heard no news of Sawara. Many
admirers of Kimi came to her uncle with offers of marriage, and Tenko
was debating as to what he should do in the matter, when he received a
letter from Myokei, saying that Sawara was doing good work, and that he
desired that his excellent pupil should marry his daughter.
Tenko imagined, perhaps not without some reason, that Sawara had
forgotten all about Kimi, and that the best thing he could do was to
give her in marriage to Yorozuya, a wealthy merchant, and also to
fulfil Miyokei's wish that Sawara should marry the great painter's
daughter. With these intentions Tenko resolved to employ strategy, so
he called Kimi to him, and said:
"Kimi, I have had a letter from Myokei, and I am afraid the sad news
which it contains will distress you. Myokei wishes Sawara to marry his
daughter, and I have told him that I fully approve of the union. I
feel sure that Sawara has neglected you, and I therefore wish that you
should marry Yorozuya, who will make, I am sure, a very good husband."
When Kimi heard these words she wept bitterly, and without a word went
to her room.
In the morning Tenko entered Kimi's apartment, but his niece had
gone, and the protracted search that followed failed to discover her
whereabouts.
When Myokei had received Tenko's letter he told the promising young
artist that he wished him to marry his daughter, and thus establish a
family of painters; but Sawara was amazed to hear this extraordinary
news, and explained that he could not accept the honour of becoming his
son-in-law because he was already engaged to Tenko's niece.
Sawara, all too late, sent letters to Kimi, and, receiving no reply,
he set out for his old home, shortly after the death of Myokei.
When he reached the little house where he had received his first
lessons in the art of painting he learnt with anger that Kimi had left
her old uncle, and in due time he married Kiku ("Chrysanthemum"), the
daughter of a wealthy farmer.
Shortly after Sawara's marriage the Lord of Aki bade him paint the
seven scenes of the Islands of Kabakari-jima, which were to be mounted
on gold screens. He at once set out for these islands, and made a
number of rough sketches. While thus employed he met along the shore
a woman with a red cloth round her loins, her hair loose and falling
about her shoulders. She carried shell-fish in her basket, and as soon
as she saw Sawara she recognised him.
"You are Sawara and I am Kimi," said she, "to whom you are engaged. It
was a false report about your marriage with Myokei's daughter, and my
heart is full of joy, for now nothing prevents our union."
"Alas! poor, much-wronged Kimi, that cannot be!" replied Sawara. "I
thought that you deserted Tenko, and that you had forgotten me, and
believing these things to be true I have married Kiku, a farmer's
daughter."
[Illustration: A Kakemono Ghost.--124]
Kimi, without a word, sprang forward like a hunted animal, ran along
the shore, and entered her little hut, Sawara running after her and
calling her name over and over again. Before his very eyes he saw Kimi
take a knife and thrust it into her throat, and in another moment she
lay dead upon the ground. Sawara wept as he gazed upon her still form,
noticed the wistful beauty of Death upon her cheek, and saw a new glory
in her wind-blown hair. So fair and wonderful was her presence now that
when he had controlled his weeping he made a sketch of the woman who
had loved him so well, but so pitifully. Above the mark of the tide
he buried her, and when he reached his own home he took out the rough
sketch, painted a picture of Kimi, and hung the _kakemono_ on the wall.
Kimi Finds Peace
That very night he awoke to find that the figure on the _kakemono_ had
come to life, that Kimi with the wound in her throat, the dishevelled
hair, stood beside him. Night after night she came, a silent, pitiful
figure, until at last Sawara, unable to bear these visitations any
longer, presented the _kakemono_ to the Korinji Temple and sent his
wife back to her parents. The priests of the Korinji Temple prayed
every day for the soul of Kimi, and by and by Kimi found peace and
troubled Sawara no more.
[Footnote 1: See _Ancient Tales and Folk-lore of Japan_, by R. Gordon
Smith.]
[Footnote 2: Adapted from the _No_ drama, translated by B. H.
Chamberlain.]
[Footnote 3: _Ancient Tales and folk-lore of Japan_, by R. Gordon
Smith.]