When Buying Japanese Prints
I
THE penalty I pay for being a teacher in Oriental art is that I am constantly called upon to pass judgment on Japanese prints. Collector after collector batters at my door, demanding that I give opinion about his pet prints. Occasionally I am allowed to escape with an evasive remark such as ‘This is one of the subjects Hiroshige loved to paint,’ or a noncommittal subterfuge like ‘This is quite interesting.’ Most of the time, however, I must stand with my flimsy back to the wall, and receive a full charge of rapid-fire questions.
One interesting thing about my tormentors is that their questions seldom go beyond the matter of originality of the prints. ‘ Is this the original? ’ they ask with startling uniformity. ‘Is this one of the very first prints made?’
They apply the same method of evaluation to the prints as they do to paintings and sculpture. They believe that if a print is original it is the best.
When we speak of original prints, we mean those produced from original drawings. The prints made from or in
imitation of the originals are called ‘reprints’ or ‘imitations.’ Now, each group of these originals — the prints created from one drawing — usually numbers two or three hundred. Not all of these are uniformly good. There are all grades and qualities among them.
This variation in quality occurred mostly during the process of printing. At this last stage of production many things — some unavoidable and some unexpected — were apt to cause various defects in the color prints.
Take, for instance, the works of Harunobu. Harunobu, being so extremely delicate in sentiments and technique, used thin lines, which had a tendency to wear out toward the end of printing. Consequently the prints that were produced after one hundred or so impressions show effacements here and there. This defect is sometimes present even in the prints of such artists as Hiroshige and Kuniyoshi, who specialized in heavy lines, for the last impressions are occasionally bound to be inferior to the earlier ones. The very first impressions, on the other hand, are usually not so good as the later ones, for the wood blocks do not begin to ‘take’ the paper and to show the full effects of the color until after some use. Some publishers were conscientious enough to destroy these premature products, but some were willing, or were driven, to market everything they printed.
Difference in the quality of the prints occurred also through a change in printers, for sometimes the work changed hands while the printing was in progress. The difference is noticeable especially when the change took place among great printers. Some printers were better artists than the artists themselves, and they produced masterpieces from commonplace drawings. Those notan effects, relief effects, and snow effects, which we admire so much, were created by printers skilled in the use of the wipe-off method, and in the handling of cotton and rice flour. When these printers yielded their post to others, the grade of the prints went down several degrees.
The quality of prints suffered also from the excessive speed employed in their making. Toward the end of the print period, and especially after the time of Utamaro, print making was thoroughly commercialized. The publishers of that time were out to advance their interest by treating timely subjects. They kept their ears to the ground and depicted anything that had aroused, or was likely to arouse, the interest of the public. Because their patrons were mostly common people, they portrayed those persons and incidents that were likely to interest the lower classes. A popular courtesan in a sensational scandal, a famed actor playing a favorite rôle, ‘smoke-eaters’ engaged in a spectacular fight, great wrestlers battling for the glory of their camps — these were the subjects they brought out in their prints.
When treating such timely elements, speed is all-important. Accordingly the publishers went after the artists with guns and whips. They kept swift-footed messengers at the artists’ doors, to carry back the drawings the moment they were finished. Then they put the carvers and printers to work, lashing them to the last degree of efficiency. The prints were snatched away before the ink on them was dry, and were sold all over the city.
Publishers did anything and everything to get ahead of others. The process was pretty much the same as that applied to a newspaper at the coming of big news.
Laboring under such tremendous pressure, one can seldom do full justice to his art. There is something missing — something not quite up to his usual standard. Consequently some of the prints produced under such circumstances show a number of imperfections.
Another fact that limited the æsthetic value of the originals was that many artists were compelled to paint subjects that were unsuited to their natural taste or talent. Each artist had pet subjects and a technique of his own. Harunobu was most skilled in painting young lovers, Kuniyoshi in depicting warriors and wrestlers, Utamaro in portraying women, and Sharaku in reproducing the feel of muscles. When these artists worked in their chosen field in their own way, they produced masterpieces. Sometimes, however, they were forced to treat subjects that were quite foreign to their taste. Some artists had sufficient wealth or courage to spurn such demands; Utamaro, for instance, persistently refused to paint actors. Many, however, were so situated that they must bow to the dictum of the publishers, and these unfortunates made kindling wood, so to say, out of their cherry trees.
II
All this shows how far one must go beyond the question of originality. One must see not only that the print is original, but that it is well made, and that it represents the best work of the artist.
Suppose a collector is buying the work of Hokusai. He must remember that this artist was more of a creator than an interpreter. Hokusai was extremely subjective in his attitude, regarding his subjects merely as a medium of self-expression. That wras the greatest power he had. Because he considered men and nature as the materials with which to build a castle of his own, he could create a picture out of anything. A blade of grass, an insect, a spider web, a piece of fruit, became a picture under the magic of his art.
Hokusai had a deep interest in the dramatic side of nature. Mount Fuji towering amid flaming thunderclouds, a giant wave crumbling over fishing boats, a belching volcano hurling thousands of things into smoke-blackened air, great waterfalls thundering down from mid-sky to the unfathomed abyss — these were some of his pet subjects.
He also loved to give ingenious twists, so to speak, to the things he saw. Being a great technician, he could knead his subjects into any shape. Mount Fuji framed in a giant barrel, or standing under the limb of a monstrous tree, from which a woodcutter is hanging head down with his axe poised for a stroke, or mirrored on the back of a tray held by a beauty — such pictures show this side of his genius.
Having a powerful imagination, Hokusai took great interest in imaginative scenes and creatures. Heaven and hell, the land of immortals, the home of fairies, haunted houses, ghosts and goblins, fantastic birds, supernatural animals, he vividly described. His pictures of ghosts and supernatural beings — like Sho Ki, a fiery smiter of demons — are among his masterpieces.
Hokusai was one of the few print artists who made a thorough study of human anatomy. His human figures are not only correct in proportions, but full of life. Even when treating such difficult matters as long legs, long arms, or men in all forms of contortion, he gave them perfect balance, proportion, life, and action.
In this respect he was like Kuniyoshi, who utilized Occidental realism in his human figures and spared no efforts in depicting the natural appearance of things. It is said that on one occasion Kuniyoshi pushed over one of his pupils in order to study the look of surprise on his face. He owes much of his fame as the master painter of wrestlers to his conscientious efforts to portray things as they are.
When buying the works of Hokusai one should remember these things and try to find the prints that represent the particular taste and talents of this great genius, avoiding, however, the ones in which the power of the artist has become his weakness — that is, those in which he showed his ingenuity and creative power to excess. Some of his pictures are so extremely overdone that they give us no opportunity to exercise our own creative ability. Everything that a human mind can possibly imagine is painted in such prints, blocking every tentacle of imagination and adventure we stretch toward them. Unless one is making a complete set of Hokusai, one should avoid these obvious specimens.
III
If the collector is selecting the works of Hiroshige, he should take into consideration the fact that this artist, unlike Hokusai, was essentially an interpreter. He depicted man and nature from the point of view of the interested observer. The life he portrayed was the life lived by the people of his time, and the scenes were the scenes he saw himself. Of course, some of the things he painted were not correct, because he had a weak memory and forgot many of the things he had seen. His second Tokaido Series is a case in point. As this group was produced many years after he had visited the fifty-three post villages of the famous highway, he could not remember some of the details. But in the main his description is correct, and interprets the truthful aspects of people, locality, and time.
Hiroshige was a poet among the print artists. His products are full of lyrical qualities. Take, for instance, ‘Suijin Forest along Sumida River,’A cherry tree spreads its laden boughs over a temple yard lying far below. In the river that sprawls beyond the red gate, the temple, and the sacred trees of the temple yard, two white sails and a long raft are slowly gliding. Beyond this river stretch long forests, dotted with small houses. Over these forests, separated by long, silvery mist, towers a mountain.
‘ The Pine Tree of Karasaki.’ A giant pine tree stands in the centre, towering like a green mountain. Over this ancient tree rain falls like a jeweled screen.
‘Kiri Batake of Akasaka.’ Trees along a river bank, full of foliage and intensely green, form a sort of tall hedge over the houses, where lights are seen. Beyond the river are further rows of trees, one darker than another. People are walking under dainty parasols. Over all these falls gentle rain.
‘Evening Moon of Ryogoku.’ Huge bridge posts in the foreground partly hide the full moon. Beyond these posts, a number of houses and a halfmoon bridge are etched against dark forests. In the river are a number of ships, some moored and some sailing, some in the gray shadow of the bridge, and some in the silver of the moonlight.
‘Maisaka of Tokaido.’ Cone-shaped rocky mountains rise amid a waveless sea. Huge white sails near the front bring out the green of the young pine trees standing along the shore. Far beyond is the white peak of Mount Fuji.
‘Hagi Temple.’ In the centre is a huge monument under a tree. Promontories and a bridge separate the inlet and the main stream. There is a great forest beyond, and beautiful locust trees everywhere. Some people are sitting on the river bank and some are walking among the trees.
‘The Moon of Saruhashi.’ Under a bridge spanning two dark cliffs a full moon, half hidden by a tree, shines over the white mist lying between the valley below and the sprawling mountains beyond.
‘Night Scene in Yoshiwara.’ Enormous cherry trees spread their boughs over the houses, with quietly winking lanterns, up into the sky. Against the moon the blossoms are pale; against the dark roofs they are white; against the light shining through the paper doors they are, again, pale; against the light of the lanterns below they glow in the color of sunset clouds.
‘Evening along Kiso Kaido.’ A row of ancient trees, some upright and some twisted, separate the highway and the darker forests and mountain beyond. A full moon hangs on the branch of one of the trees. On the highway are a number of tourists, some carrying bundles, some leading horses, all absorbed in the beauty of the night.
‘Night Scene in Tsukuda Shima.’ A half moon and large stars in a gray sky. Over blue water, a number of ships. From the edge of a fishing craft two lonely torch fires, rising like incense smoke, drop their light into the water.
These are all full of poetic imagery.
Hiroshige was also a humanist, and was fond of painting humane aspects of man and nature. He could never portray scenes of stark tragedy or horrible brutality. Everything he painted — men, animals, nature — is gentle, humane, and joyous, if not joyful. Beside a road, in evening twilight, tourists are swapping stories around a bonfire. A few horses are standing near them, with their heads bent close to their masters. A great tree hangs its branches over the group as if to protect them from the chill of the night. Such a scene he mostly painted — a scene in which men, animals, and nature are beautifully harmonized. Even when depicting snow and rain, he did not show the snow that withers trees and stifles men, or the storm that tears at the houses and whips torrents into fury, but the snow which comes to hang flowers on the bamboo trees and ancient pines, and the rain which cuts the air like silver harp cord or falls to banish the summer heat and freshen wild flowers. Pictures treating rain, snow, and mist in such a way are among his greatest masterpieces.
Being so gentle and humane in their tone, many of his paintings lack power and depth. But this defect, if it is a defect at all, is more than compensated by the kindly warmth which radiates like sunshine from the hearts of his paintings.
The rain pictures of Hiroshige, by the way, are not only gentle and humane, but musical. They make us hear the rain singing among the bamboo forests of Shono and over the rice plants of Maruyama, and drumming over the zigzag bridge of Seta and on the leisurely waters of Sumida River.
The collector might remember also that Hiroshige was a man of loneliness.
I do not know whether this was due to his nature or to the influence of his time, for he lived when the Yedo period was about to write the last page of its history. While the people sang amid blossoms and danced under lanterns and multicolored streamers, the tide of time had flowed on, and the shadows had come to hide the glory of the Yedo period. Perhaps, in his delicate mind, Hiroshige felt this approach of the end; or perhaps the whole scene around him bespoke the time when the fairest of the flowers in the history of Japan must answer the call of wind and evening bell.
Everywhere in his pictures we find a mark of loneliness. An old pilgrim following his weary way under moonlit trees; pale smoke rising from a desolate plain, where shadows are fast gathering; a solitary lantern sending its yellowish light from the edge of an old, old port; an aged wanderer warming his hands over the fire under a great tree, and beside him a horse, which sidles up to him as if it too were tired and full of loneliness — all these show this side of his artistic sentiment. Even in the prints showing the gayest scenes there is a suggestion of loneliness somewhere. Take, for instance, ‘The Opening of Ryogoku Bridge.’ The bridge is full of people and the river is full of ships. Giant fireworks splash flowers in the sky. And yet there is a shadow of loneliness. Sometimes this shadow turns a scene of greatest joy into a vision of poetic sorrow. All the people and flowers and lanterns seem to be laughing and dancing to hide their tears. They make us think of the nightingale singing amid falling blossoms.
IV
And now, how to judge the prints in respect to originality. This is a highly difficult task; first, because there are many extremely clever imitations; secondly, because some originals, through poor preservation or use of the wrong method in washing, have acquired the semblance of reprints and imitations; and, thirdly, because a number of prints bear the kind of colors that are usually ascribed to reproductions. A solution made of the ashes of rice straw is usually employed in washing soiled prints. When this solution is too strong, or when other compounds are used, some of the colors fade. Even when the right preparation is used, if the washing is done too often the prints lose some of their original qualities.
Some experts say that the presence of anilin dye is the infallible mark of imitations, but this opinion holds true only in respect to the earlier and mediæval products. There were times when anilin dye was used on original prints. When the mineral dye invaded Japan, it took the country by storm — it was so cheap, so easy to apply, and so gay in effect. To a man of lower taste it seemed like a vast improvement upon vegetable colors. Hence some publishers used it on their products.
These facts make the process of judging prints extremely complicated. Still, the matter is not entirely impossible. There are certain guideposts by which one may proceed with a fair degree of safety. One such is the quality of colors — particularly of blue and black. Let us, for the sake of clearness, ignore the originals on which anilin dye was used. They are sufficiently limited in variety, if not in number, to be kept out of our discussion. The blue used on the other originals was a vegetable color, and it has the freshness, softness, and depth characteristic of vegetable colors. It is the sort of blue you find on the back of a bird, called indigo — soft, deep, and velvety, contrasting markedly with the pale, hard, shallow blue of the anilin dye. It is different even from the vegetable blue that is now being produced in Japan. The Japanese are using the same kind of vegetable and the same process of extraction and curing, but somehow the color is different from the one the print artists used. For all their efforts, experts are unable to find the cause of this difference.
The black of these older originals is also different from the kind modern printers are using, which is mostly made from carbon formed of wood, coal, and mineral oil. The print makers lived at a time when vegetable oil was burned quite extensively, and used carbon collected from this type of oil, bound by gelatine and made into ink sticks. The black so produced has more depth, softness, and brilliance than the other.
The red of the print artists is also different from that of the present time. It is richer in tone, though not so bright and gay; it has softness, quietness, and depth, like the red on the cheek of a ripe apricot. Mineral red is like the color of a ripe apple — brilliant and intense, but shallow and hard. It is more difficult for a layman to determine the difference in quality of the red, however, than of the blue or black.
All the vegetable colors used on the prints are more durable than the mineral colors, and preserve their vitality longer than anilin products. Shrewd dealers sometimes show prints that are faded and browned by so-called great age. At such a time one must closely examine the colors as to their vitality. Vegetable colors may fade, but they seldom lose their life under ordinary circumstances. Somewhere in their texture they preserve their original freshness and clearness, and those that show pale and lifeless under the coat of yellow or brown are not real vegetable colors. I may add that those precious brown and yellow tones which some people take as the unmistakable proof of antiquity are frequently produced by smoking, or by painting or rubbing a certain color into the texture of the prints. I might add also that those lovely wormholes are occasionally made in five minutes, instead of in a hundred years.
The texture of paper is another guidepost one may follow. Original paper was made from the bark of a tree similar to the mulberry, and has the same texture as the inner bark of that tree. It is soft, heavy, and pliable — a good deal like so-called rice paper, though not entirely so. One can acquire the touch only by feeling the original and then comparing it with others.
V
In determining the originality of a print, therefore, one must see, first, what types of colors were used; secondly, how much of vividness and vitality these colors preserve; thirdly, on what kind of paper it was printed. There are several other things one should consider, but they require a fair knowledge of Japanese language and history.
This method of judging prints is quite helpful, but not always infallible. Even the greatest of experts is occasionally taken in by imitations. But there is another thing to think of. If one buys a print for its æthetic value, the question of originality need not trouble one very much. The prints are no longer curios; we collect them for their artistic value. The costliest prints of Sharaku and Kuniyoshi are valueless unless they add to the joy and beauty of our lives.
One day a friend of mine bought a print simply because she liked it. It was the work of a minor artist, and a crude one at that; but she bought it because it appealed to her. In this picture a number of young country girls are playing under a huge plum tree. One of them is mounted on a bundle of dry branches she has collected in the hills and is bringing down a shower of blossoms by bending a branch of the tree. Another is dipping her toes into a tiny stream, which ripples like a wind-blown streamer. It is a picture of girls in the springtime of their lives extracting a full measure of joy from the springtime of the year. Despite crudeness of technique, it brought the fresh beauty and gay spirit of spring vividly into my heart. When buying such a picture, one cares not whether it be an original, a reprint, or the work of a nameless artist, for he is appreciating art in the way it should be appreciated.