Andon 111, Journal of the Society for Japanese Art

andon 111

Hotei Japanese prints, paintings, illustrated books and works of art

spring 2021

> Brockhaus' acquisitions of netsuke

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Tel. +31-(0)71-5143552 E-mail ukiyoe@xs4all.nl www.hotei-japanese-prints.com

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> Bashōfu of Japanese Okinawa Journal of the Society for Japanese Art

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Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849) The Poet Abe no Nakamaro, from the series One Hundred Poems, Explained by the Nurse Woodblock print, circa 1835-36, horizontal oban: 25.2 × 37.5 cm. (9 7/8 × 14 3/4 in.)

4 Cromwell Place, London SW7 2JE, United Kingdom — social @avsjapaneseart anastasia@avsjapaneseart.com — +44 (0) 7966 255 250 avsjapaneseart.com

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JAPANESE PRINTS

YOSAI NOBUKAZU Sagiike Heikuro, retainer of Kusunoki Masashige, slaying serpent at Sayama Pond, triptych, 1892

Mail: ukiyoe@harashobo.com / Tel: +81-(0)3-5212-7801 2-3 Kanda Jimbocho, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo 101-0051 Japan Open Tue - Sat, 11am-5pm Closed Sun, Mon, Holidays

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Oranda Jin’s treasure box.

Tanomura Chikuden (1777-1835) Chikuden was ranked among the first and most scholarly of the Bunjin Nanga painters. His pupils, especially his major student and adopted son Tanomura Chokunyū (1814-1907) have carried on his legacy throughout the 19th and early 20th Century.

Chikuden, born in Bungo was trained as a doctor in the service of the Oka clan. Being only the second son, he received permission to give up the family occupation and at the age of 23 he was allowed to study Chinese poetry and painting. At the school of the Oka family he was taught ethics and history and so Chikuden became the historian of Bungo province.

In 1813 Chikuden resigned and started travelling and devoted himself to artistic pursuits. He travelled to Edo, but found more of his liking in Kyoto and Osaka where he learned more about the painting styles, techniques and poetry from his bunjin friends. In 1826 he moved to Nagasaki to study recently imported Chinese poetry. During his life Chikuden kept moving back and forth between Kansai and his home in Kyūshū.

The village and the river light up in the sun, The evening falls in the sky to the south; Its backlight pales the sun, As the moon shines on the edges of the roof.

S Shōchikubai, pine, bamboo and plum Signed: Chikuden rōfu gasan Seal: Chikuden Sumi and light colours on paper, 110.8 x 29.8 Green and brown damask mounting, 199 x 42.9 Authorized in the fall of 1918 by Tanaka Hakuin (1866-1934) and Tachika Chikuson (1864-1922)

Together with a potter named Hōkō X Kashibachi, cake bowl - landscape Signed: Chikuden sei Seal: Chikuden and Hōkō Fine crackled grey kyōyaki with a blue overglaze painting of a landscape, Ø 18 x 7,5 Authorized in 1925 by Kanō Tessai (1845-1925)

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ORANDA JIN Japanese paintings & painters’ pottery Jon & Senne de Jong Kalverstraat 28, 5223 AD ’s-Hertogenbosch, The Netherlands +31 73 621 89 51 / orandajin@home.nl / orandajin.com Please visit our web gallery. We post updates every first week of the month.

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Shedding light on Japanese art

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Content

In This Issue

05

Dear members,

Albert Brockhaus (1855–1921) – Acquiring netsuke throughout Europe Patrizia Jirka–Schmitz

Andon 111 brings you a broad variety of themes related to Japanese Art. Patrizia Jirka-Schmitz introduces us to the netsuke collection of the German

20

The Paradox of the ‘Horror Comic’:

publisher Albert Brockhaus and provides us a fascinating insight into the

Conveying Fear in the Manga of Itō Junji

netsuke art market of the time.

Michael Crandol

Michael Crandol discusses the world of horror comics. By focusing on manga of horror master Itō Junji, he shows us how cinematic horror is translated to pages

37

Roger Keyes, dear friend

of the comics medium.

Israel Goldman

The obituary by Israel Goldman, reminds us of the life and work of one of the greatest scholars of Japanese prints, Roger Keyes.

43

Gakutei’s Fine Views of Mount Tenpō –

Jack Quarrier takes us on a journey to Mount Tenpō in Osaka, a location that

Celebrating Osaka’s Newest Tourist

became a major tourist attraction in the 1830s. He looks at Yashima Gakutei’s

Attraction in 1834

set of six ōban prints depicting the mount and places them in context of early

Jack Quarrier

Tenpō landscape prints.

Francesco Montuori offers a view on the textile craft of bashōfu, cloth made

59

From Local to National. Crafting the Identity

from the banana plant in Okinawa, highlighting its historical and cultural

of bashōfu in Japanese Okinawa

background.

Francesco Montuori

Jim Dwinger’s book review presents us an overview of Amy Stanley’s compelling book Stranger in the Shogun’s City: A Woman’s Life in Nineteenth-Century Japan.

68

Book Review Stranger in the Shogun’s City: A Woman’s Life in

Andon Editorial Board

Nineteenth Century Japan

by Amy Stanley Jim Dwinger On the cover: spring 2021

> Brockhaus' acquisitions of netsuke

Katsushika Hokusai Detail of Sesshu ajikawaguchi Tenpōzan (see p. 56)

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Journal of the Society for Japanese Art

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Andon, Shedding Light on Japanese Art Andon, the journal of the Society for Japanese Art (SJA), provides a forum for the exchange of ideas and information relating to Japanese art.

Andon is published twice a year.

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© Copyright 2021 the Society of Japanese Art, The Netherlands. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the Society. Every reasonable effort has been made to seek appropriate permission from authors or copyright holders for the material published in Andon. Copyright owners who consider their rights violated are requested to contact the Editor-in-Chief.

Editorial Board Monika Hinkel, Editor-in-Chief Aafke van Ewijk, Project Manager Jim Dwinger John Fiorillo Manuela Moscatiello Doreen Mueller Rhiannon Paget Beatrice Shoemaker

Advisory Board Willem R. van Gulik Henk J. Herwig Robert Schaap

Advertising Katherine Mead advertising@societyforjapaneseart.org

Design Marga Kanters/Henri Ritzen www.ritzen-design-consult.nl

Production High Trade, Zwolle (printed in Hungary)

ISSN 0168-2997

Correspondence All correspondence regarding Andon should be addressed to the SJA: andon@societyforjapaneseart.org All address changes should be sent to the secretary of the SJA: secretary@societyforjapaneseart.org

Contributors to Andon 111 Michael CRANDOL is an Assistant Professor of Modern Japan Studies at Leiden University, and the author of several articles on Japanese horror film.

His book Ghost in the Well: The Hidden History of Horror Films in Japan, will be released by Bloomsbury Press in 2021.

Jim DWINGER is a research assistant at Hotei Japanese Prints in Leiden. He received his master's degree in East Asian Studies (Japanese) from Leiden University, with a focus on art history. An excerpt of his MA thesis about Meiji era woodblock prints appeared in Andon 109. He recently became a member of the Andon editorial board.

Israel GOLDMAN (better known as Izzy) is a London dealer in Japanese prints, paintings and illustrated books. His personal collection of works by Kawanabe Kyōsai, which has been extensively exhibited in Japan, is one of the finest extant. Izzy’s latest discovery is a group of highly important drawings by Hokusai which were acquired by the British Museum in 2020.

Patrizia JIRKA-SCHMITZ has worked in the field of East Asian art for over 40 years and has catalogued the netsuke collections of the Lindenmuseum in Stuttgart and the Museum Kunstpalast in Düsseldorf leading to the publications Netsuke. Die Sammlung Trumpf in 2000 (Stuttgart) and Netsuke in 1990 and 1994 as well as The World of Netsuke. The Werdelmann collection in 2005 (Düsseldorf). She has also published extensively on 1920s German art collectors (Gutmann, Breuer, Solf) and art dealers (Burchard, Bohlken, Tikotin) all specialising in Far Eastern art. Since 2001 she is editor of the journal Ostasiatische Zeitschrift, published by the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Ostasiatische Kunst.

Francesco MONTUORI is currently a student of the ResMA ‘Arts & Cultures’ at Leiden University. He holds a BA in Japanese Language from Ca’ Foscari University of Venice (2017) and a MA in Asian Studies from Leiden University (2019). His current research explores the evolution of Asian-style rooms in 16th-17th century Europe and Orientalist art.

Jack QUARRIER is a recently retired physician. He majored in art history at Yale followed by graduate school in art history at Brown. After a seismic career shift, he became a physician, training at Albert Einstein and University of California San Francisco. For the past 30 years, he has been an avid collector of Japanese prints and a member of the Society for Japanese Art.

Guidelines for Submission to Andon Submissions to Andon are accepted year-round with articles submitted from 1 February to 1 July considered for the Winter issue and from 1 August to 1 January for the Spring issue. Articles should be no more than 5,000 words, with 10–15 illustrations. Reviews of books, catalogues or exhibitions should be no more than 700 words, with 3 illustrations, including a cover image.

All submissions should be delivered in a digital format in accordance with Andon’s house style (a stylesheet is available upon request). Submitted articles are subject to review before final acceptance; authors will receive three complimentary copies upon publication. Any enquiries regarding the submission of articles should be addressed to the SJA.

For further information, please visit our website at www.societyforjapaneseart.org/andon

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Albert Brockhaus

Patrizia Jirka–Schmitz

(1855–1921) Acquiring netsuke throughout Europe Introduction

1.

Albert Brockhaus. Pastell by Alfred Klamroth (1860–1929).

From: Brockhaus. S., Sven Hedin und Albert Brockhaus. Eine Freundschaft in Briefen zwischen Autor und Verleger, F. A. Brockhaus, Leipzig 1942, Ill. after p. 10.

The name Brockhaus is a household name in Germany. Many people grew up with the ‘Brockhaus’, the thirty–volume encyclopedia or at least with its 1982 paperback edition.

The netsuke collector of today, on the other hand, is familiar with the name of Albert Brockhaus for his book Netsuke, Versuch einer Geschichte der japanischen Schnitzkunst based on the author’s collection and first published in 1905. The fascination on part of the bidders generated by this collection when 199 netsuke were sold at Lempertz in Cologne on 27 June 2020 was in part due to the documentation available for almost all the netsuke.

Brockhaus made an index card for each piece, and these cards — with some substantial gaps — have been preserved within the family and also exist as photocopies. On these cards, Brockhaus meticulously jotted down subject and artist as well as the date of purchase, name of the dealer/seller and price (original and reduced prices in many cases).1

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Biographical notes

First acquisitions

Albert Brockhaus (fig. 1) was born in Leipzig on 2 September 1855 as the eldest of five sons to Dr. Eduard and Milly Brockhaus (nee Witt). His father was the owner of the F. A. Brockhaus publishing company, one of the oldest and most important firms in Leipzig, one of the world’s largest centres of publishing, printing and book trading from the early 19th century until the end of the Second World War in 1945.

At the age of 21, Brockhaus entered the book trade as an apprentice at Jurany & Hensel in Wiesbaden. Before becoming a partner in the printing and publishing house of his father on 1 January 1881, he spent some time — probably half a year — in Paris where he worked for the publisher and bookseller A. Lemoigne and then in London for the ‘foreign bookseller’ Trübner & Co. In France and England, he became proficient in the respective languages, an ability that later on allowed him to travel with ease and network with Japanophiles Europe–wide.

During his forty years as head of the publishing company, Brockhaus expanded the ‘Konversationslexikon’, the encyclopedia which had first been published in two volumes in 1812, to 17 volumes (13th and 14th edition, 1882–1908), while books on geography and travel became the second mainstay of the business. He held various honorary positions such as the president of the board of the influential Leipzig–based Börsenverein der Deutschen Buchhändler (Association of the German book dealers) from 1901 to 1907. He was also involved in the organisation of the Congress of the International Publishers Association, founded in Paris in 1896, and a regular attendee at the Association’s meetings, held in various European cities until 1913.

Albert Brockhaus started to collect netsuke in the 1880s, probably during his late 20s or early 30s. At first, he bought only a few per year but then became increasingly voracious as demonstrated by his attempt to acquire three–hundred netsuke from Hayashi in 1898, by his purchase of a collection of up to three hundred and fifty pieces from a certain Levin in 1906 and the gleanings of about 350 netsuke at the W. L. Behrens sales of 1913 and 1914.

At the outset, Brockhaus bought only occasionally from dealers in London, Paris and Berlin. For example, in London he acquired a seal–type shishi in 1888 (no dealer named), bearing the collection number 16. A year later in August 1889, he purchased a Masanao frog netsuke in a Paris toy shop (coll. no. 21) for 5 Francs for which — much later — Louis Gonse complimented him highly in a letter dated 10 August 1896.2 Until 1896 the most frequently named source for netsuke is known only by the letters ‘M, H.’.

From 1896 onward, the information regarding the date of acquisition and the sellers’ names becomes a regular feature on the cards. In presenting the sources of his netsuke, I will introduce the various dealers listed by country.

2.

Hermann Pächter (1839–1902) in his shop on Dessauerstr. 2 in Berlin.

Oil painting entitled ‘Der Kunstfreund‘ by Rudolf von Voigtländer (1854–?). 54,5 x 45 cm. Dated 1895.

Courtesy Gallerie Bassenge, Berlin, 2001.

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Germany In Berlin Brockhaus regularly visited two shops, R. Wagner and Rex & Co. He patronised R. Wagner on Dessauerstraße 2 from 1896 to 1907. R. Wagner was a former publishing and printing business taken over in the 1870s by Hermann Pächter (1839–1902) (fig. 2), who had turned it into a gallery that mainly dealt in paintings and prints by Adolf Menzel, Max Liebermann and French Neo–Impressionists.

But he also sold Japanese prints and works of art, as well as Japanese paraphernalia such as paper, lanterns and textiles. Pächter had close ties to Paris and especially to S. Bing (1838–1905), part of whose stock he acquired after Bing switched to art nouveau in 1895.3 After Pächter’s death, the company remained in business into the 1930s.

However, the German dealer source most frequently mentioned is Rex & Co., from whom Brockhaus bought throughout his collecting career starting in 1898. The Rex company was founded in 1854 as J. L. Rex, importers of tea and vanilla, in 1874 spinning off the Chinese and Japanese goods section under the Name Rex & Co. By 1890 the shop was on busy Leipziger Straße 22 and in 1907 they moved to their new impressive new premises on Mohrenstraße 7–8 (fig. 3), the Rex–Haus.

Here, three differently named Rex companies sold wine and spirits, tea and vanilla, and Japanese and Chinese porcelains, prints and paintings and objects in taste congruent with Japonisme. The netsuke bought from Rex & Co. were all in a lower price range than those from R. Wagner, many with a price tag below 10 Marks (about € 70)4.

In 1900 and 1901 Brockhaus frequently called on Taen Arr Hee, also an importer of tea since the early 1880s, who had branched out into selling Japanese paper, foodstuffs such as soy sauce, as well as Chinese and Japanese objects of art. There were two Taen Arr Hee shops.5 The shop in Berlin was managed from

3.

Rex–Haus on Mohrenstraße.

From: Wilhelm Cremer und Richard Wolffenstein, Der innere Ausbau, vol. V, Ernst Wasmuth, Berlin 1910, plate 39.

4.

The brothers Taen, left Taen Hee Tsen (1861–?) and right Taen Err Toung (1859–1945) in a Berlin streetcar with and advertisement of the Taen Arr Hee shop. Drawing by Chr. W. Allers (1857–1915) for his book Spreeathener, published 1889.

Source: https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Datei:Allers_Spree_28_Taen.jpg.

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1888 onward by Frederick George Taen (1859– 1945) together with his brother Alfred (1861–?) (fig. 4) under the name of F. G. Taen Arr Hee at Leipziger Strae 119/20 and continued from 1897 on into the first years of the 1900s at Oranienstraße 141.

The other Taen Arr Hee shop was in Dresden and was run by Frederick George’s father Albert Taen Arr Hee at Bank Straße 1 since the mid–1880s. His widow then moved to Friedrichsallee 2 in 1893, where the shop probably remained until the early 1910s.

Brockhaus does not say at which shop he bought. The spectacular Toyomasa netsuke of a jumping hare (figs. 5a and b) was acquired from Taen Arr Hee in 1901.

There were other importers of tea and Japanese goods such as J. C. F. Schwartze and Albert Wallach in Berlin, where Brockhaus purchased netsuke around 1905. Other names appearing on the index cards are Weinrich, Bamberger (Bremen?) and Lürmann (J. Stephan Lürmann, Japan–Import, Frankfurt).

In Hamburg, the hometown of his wife Mony, he visited the large premises of J. G. F. Umlauff, located on Spielbudenplatz where shells, taxidermy and ethnographica were sold. With a hunter’s trained eye, on 22 January 1899 Brockhaus found a few interesting netsuke here for a very low price, including the fine ivory netsuke of a horse by Masaharu (figs. 6a and b).

In his hometown of Leipzig, Brockhaus bought — albeit only twice — from Riquet & Co., founded in 1745 and one of the oldest companies in Germany selling cocoa and tea. In 1906 Riquet moved to a newly built house at Schuhmachergässchen 1–3/corner Reichsstraße (fig. 7), a landmark house still standing today. From 1903 onward he purchased also from Erwin Olbricht (1871–?), a Leipzig chemist, who sold netsuke to the Ethnographical Museum in Leipzig.

5a.

Netsuke of a jumping hare. Boxwood. Signed Toyomasa. W. 5 cm.

19th century.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne, © Saša Fuis Photographie, Köln.

5b.

Index card for the netsuke of a hare. Below the crossed–out line, Brockhaus notes that Hara gave his comment ‘gut’.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne.

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Netsuke only occasionally came up for sale at German auctions. Brockhaus’ earliest purchase at an auction was probably at Emil Mühlenpfordt in Hamburg in 1897, followed by acquisitions at the sale of the collection of Eduard Gaston Pöttick Graf von Pettenegg (1847–1918) at Hugo Helbing in Munich.

Pöttick von Pettenegg, who lived in Vienna, was one of the earliest and biggest collectors of Japanese works of art in the German– speaking countries. He sold the first part of his collection of about 1,200 objects on 3 February 1903 shortly before being ordained as a catholic priest. At this and the following sale on 19 November 1906 at the Dorotheum in Vienna, Brockhaus acquired altogether eleven netsuke.6

6a.

Netsuke of a horse.

Ivory. H. 6,5 cm. Signed Mitsuharu.

Mid–18th century.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne, © Saša Fuis Photographie, Köln

As we have seen, in the years from 1880 to 1910 in Germany netsuke were mainly sold by shops dealing in tea and other imports from China and Japan. The exceptions were the aforementioned R. Wagner, Ludwig Glenk7 of Berlin, and possibly also H. Saenger8 of Hamburg. Glenk and Saenger were visited

by Brockhaus albeit rarely. These purveyors of Japanese goods imported great quantities through Yokohama–based agents with little specialised knowledge. Hence their offerings were of mixed quality, as there were no criteria for assessing artistic quality, and the demand was primarily for objects of exotic quaintness.

The prices asked were rather low, even below 10 Marks in the early years and rising only little in the first decade of the 20th century.

Telling examples of how high–quality pieces were intermingled with bric–a–brac at these shops are the two netsuke at the Lempertz sale, which were knocked down for € 100,000 and € 77,500 (including premium), the highest prices of the sale. They were purchased from Umlauff (fig. 6a) and Taen Arr Hee (fig. 5a) for the even then cheap prices of 5 (€ 35) and 12 Mark (€ 84), respectively.

6b.

Index card for the netsuke of a horse.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne.

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France Paris, the birthplace of Japonisme, was a treasure–trove for lovers of things Japanese, including prints and works of arts. Madame Desoye (1836–1909) and her husband opened the probably first shop dedicated exclusively to Japanese imports in 1864,9 to be followed by such dealers in ‘chinoiseries et japoneries’ as the brothers Auguste (1838–1886) and Philippe Sichel (1839?–1899), Antoine de la Narde (1839–1903) and the department store Au Bon Marché. These dealers catered to the first generation of French collectors that included the writer Edmond de Goncourt (1822–1896).

Beginning in 189610, Paris became Brockhaus’ prime hunting ground for netsuke for about two years. In May 1896, he announced himself by letter to the renowned

dealer S. Bing and asked him for the addresses of the collectors Louis Gonse (1846–1921) and Edmond de Goncourt (fig. 8).11 When he actually called on Bing at 22, rue de Provence in June, he bought a good number of netsuke.

Goncourt died within two months after Brockhaus received his address. When his collection came up for auction at the Hôtel Drouot on 8–13 March 1897 in Paris, Brockhaus bought twenty–one netsuke, placing the highest bids of the entire sale. One netsuke (in a lot of three, no. 1015) must have delighted him especially. The ‘femme luxurieuse’ was commented extensively in Goncourt’s book La Maison d’un artiste (1881) and the author described this netsuke in such a way that Brockhaus deemed it interesting enough to be reprinted in his own book.12

7.

8.

Riquet–Haus on Schuhmachergässchen 1–3/corner

Letter by S. Bing (1838–1905) to Brockhaus with the

Reichsstraße, Leipzig.

addresses of Louis Gonse and Edmond de Goncourt, dated 19 May 1896.

Photo by the author. July 2020.

From: Klefisch, T., ‘Albert Brockhaus (1850–1921)’, in: Bulletin Association Franco–Japonaise, no. 59, January 1998, p. 6.

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In June 1897 and April 1898 Brockhaus was in Paris again and buying from Bing, who by this time had turned to art nouveau.

Japanese art was no longer the mainstay of his business, and Japanese objects were relegated to the second floor and smaller rooms of his extensive showrooms. On the index cards dated 23 April 1898, he writes, ‘Bing, privat’.

The prices at Bing’s were generally the highest Brockhaus had to pay. A netsuke of Raiden cost him 200 Francs (128 Mark [€ 857]) (figs. 9a and b), albeit a couple of times he paid up to 350 Francs per piece. In the spring of 1898, he bought about 34 netsuke from Bing.

The first contact Brockhaus had with Hayashi Tadamasa (1853–1906) (fig. 10) was apparently in June 1897. Hayashi was the great arbiter between Japan and France, starting as an interpreter at the Paris World’s Fair of 1878, then in the 1880s opening an antique business on 65, rue de la Victoire and finally organising the monumental exhibition of Japanese art in 1900 as general commissioner of the Japanese art section of the Exposition Universelle of Paris. For about two decades he was an irreplaceable friend and advisor to the French japonisantes and many others.

On 3 August 1898 Brockhaus contacted Hayashi Tadamasa to announce a visit to his shop when passing through Paris on his return trip from the seaside resort of Berck–Plage in Northern France.13 On 11 August he bought around 30 netsuke (figs. 11 and 12 a and b) and told Hayashi about his plans to write a book on netsuke carvers. The following year in a letter of 21 March 189914 he repeated his intention and inquired about the carvers of all the netsuke in Hayashi’s private collection, which he had seen stored in a large box.

Brockhaus asked him to write down all the names and kanji or even better, to send him the whole box at his own expense. He also enquired about the price in case he might decide to purchase the entire collection.

9a.

Netsuke of Raiden.

Boxwood. H. 3,8 cm. Signed Hokutōsai Masatsugu.

Mid–19th century.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne, © Robert Cusak.

9b.

Index card for the netsuke of Raiden.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne.

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10.

Hayashi Tadamasa (1853–1906).

Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Before returning to Japan in 1905 Hayashi sold his stock through auction. At the first Hayashi sale in 1902 Brockhaus bought several netsuke from lot 1351bis (fig. 13). This lot was a collection of 550 netsuke by 550 different artists, listed one by one with a one–line text entry and none of them illustrated. On the Brockhaus index cards, we read the comment ‘geboten’ (offered), implying that he was not present at the sale. It was probably Hara Shinkichi who bid on his behalf. At the sale, Hara met W. L. Behrens and henceforth a correspondence between Behrens and Brockhaus ensued culminating in a weekend visit by Brockhaus to Manchester on 28 and 29 July 1906.17 With Hayashi Tadamasa’s return to Japan in 1905 and Siegfried Bing’s death in the same year, Paris was depleted of its most important dealers in Japanese art. Brockhaus now turned to Florine Langweil (1861–1958), Charles Vignier (1863–1934), and from 1912 on, very occasionally, to T. Kimura.

11.

List of Hayashi Tadamasa with netsuke bought by Brockhaus, dated 11.8.1898.

From: 150 Jahre Freundschaft Deutschland–Japan. 120 Netsuke from the Brockhaus collection plus a few masterpieces from others, 2010, preface by Trudel Klefisch, ill. inside back cover.

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Then, in a letter dated 30 December 1899 Brockhaus asked for the netsuke to be sent to him, and informed Hayashi that he was interested in pieces made between 1730 and 1830, masks and erotic subjects.15 In August and September 1900, the 300 netsuke were again discussed. Brockhaus considered the price of 15,000 Francs too high, but he wanted to make the final purchase decision only after having actually seen the netsuke. In the end, he sent Hayashi a list of 27 netsuke he was interested in, and for which he was willing to pay 800 Francs. On 23 November 1900, he referred to having sent back the whole collection and having taken the liberty of providing Hayashi with information on the netsuke based on his own studies, which Brockhaus hoped Hayashi would pass on to his clients. The information he referred to, basically the correct reading of signatures, was based on Hara Shinkichi’s connoisseurship.16

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England Little substantial information exists about the purveyors of Oriental goods in England. One of the earliest venues for Japanese goods was the department store Liberty’s, catering to the Japanophile from 1875 onward. In the 1880s the art dealer Ikeda Seisuke (1839–1900) of Kobe together with Thomas J. Larkin (1848– 1915), a former telegraph engineer in Japan, established a branch store in London which operated until 1893.18 By the 1890s, many of the dealers in Japanese goods and artworks were Japanese nationals living in London and importing directly from Japan. They were able to pass on specialised knowledge, read signatures and identify the subject matter, thus contributing to the knowledge of British collectors, experts and museum curators.

Additionally, private collections formed from various unknown sources and on trips to Paris or during a sojourn in Japan were dispersed by auction.

Brockhaus must have travelled to London for business several times, as his company maintained a branch there from 1891 to 1915, and he spent at least one summer vacation in Sheringham by the North Sea. In London he initially purchased netsuke from S. M. Franck, a wholesale dealer in goods from China and Japan who was much in favour with British museum curators, since buying directly from the East India dock warehouse in East London also meant cheaper prices.19 In the years from 1896 to 1899 he also called on the shop of William D. Cutter (1847–1929) on 36, Great Russel Street, a dealer in furniture, natural history specimens, ethnographical artefacts and tribal arts, whose daughter Eva Cutter (1854–1945) took over the business in 1891.

12a.

Netsuke of Chōkarō Sennin. Stag antler and lacquer. H. 4,5 cm. Around 1800. Number 25553 on the Hayashi list in preceding fig. 11.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne, © Robert Cusak.

12b.

Index card.

Photo: Courtesy Kunsthaus Lempertz, Cologne.

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Most netsuke at this early stage of purchasing in London, however, came from James Tregaskis (1850–1926) from whom Brockhaus started buying in 1899. He and his wife were the owners of the renowned ‘The Caxton Head’, J. & M. L. Tregaskis antiquarian bookstore, since the late 1880s located at 232, High Holborn, corner of New Turnstile, London W.C. (fig. 14). Back then, specialisation did not limit dealers to a single narrow field as it often does today. James Tresgaski sold fine Japanese woodblock prints to the British Museum and obviously had other japanalia in his stock.

Brockhaus must have been aware of private English collections coming up for auction in London. On 16 December 1898, he bought at the Christie, Manson & Woods sale of the collection of Ernest Hart (1835–1898). The ophthalmic surgeon started his acquisitions around 1882 and purchased from Hayashi Tadamasa and Wakai Kanesaburō (1834–1908) in Paris (fig. 15).

He was a frequent lecturer and contributed pieces from his collection to the exhibition at the Fine Art Society on Bond Street in 1887.20 His extensive collection was sold in several instalments at various venues between 1896 and 1904.21 By his own account, Brockhaus owned 131 netsuke from the Ernest Hart collection, including about 13 kagamibuta, a type of netsuke consisting of a metal disc set into a round ivory or wood bowl.22 Almost all netsuke Brockhaus acquired in the years 1907 and 1908 were bought in London from three specialist dealers in Japanese art: Yamanaka, Katō and Inada.

Yamanaka & Co. opened its London branch store on 68, New Bond Street in 1900, and shortly thereafter moved to no. 127. Tomita Kumasaku (1872–1953), who had come to London to work for the London branch of the trading company Marukoshi–gumi of Kobe, started at Yamanaka in London in 1903. Later he became its head manager and returned

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13.

14.

Index card of a netsuke of an ox by Sekiran. We see

‘The Caxton Head’, J. &

the artist’s name of Sekiran in Hara clear writing, the

M.L. Tregaskis antiquarian

translation of the inscription by Hara (in parenthesis) as

books store, at 232, High

jotted down by Brockhaus, and the note, that Brockhaus

Holborn, London W. C.

was willing to bid up to 45 Marks for this piece. In the

Picture based on a drawing

Hayashi sales catalogue, this netsuke is listed as no. 475 on

of Edward J Wheeler,

p. 337.

published in: The Book– Hunter in London in London in 1895.

Source: Wiki Commons.

15.

Ernest A. Hart (1835–1898).

Source: https://upload.wikimedia.org/ wikipedia/commons/6/61/Ernest_ Abraham_Hart2.jpg.

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to Japan in 1922 (fig. 16).23 Brockhaus first contacted Yamanaka in 1900 and bought a total of 125 netsuke from this company until 1913. He might not always have visited the London premises in person, as a total of about 600 netsuke were offered to him by mail.24 Of the three Japanese dealers from whom Brockhaus bought netsuke in London, Yamanaka asked the highest prices but was still was cheaper than Bing.

According to Frederick Meinertzhagen, Katō Shōzō (1851–1930), who came from a samurai family in Oshi, Musashi province (present–day Saitama prefecture), was brought to London in 1885 by Ernest Hart who set him up in business.25 His shop was first at 54, Mortimer Street, then 203, New Oxford Street, and in 1914 he moved to 8, New Oxford Street. He was an amiable and engaging personality who hosted New Year’s parties and liked to invite friends.26 A regular visitor to his shop was the anthropologist Minakata Kumagusu (1867–1941) who lived in London at the time. On a postcard dated 1903, Minakata sketched a gathering of himself in a silk hat, Kurihara Kintarō with an eye patch and ‘The importer of Japanese Art’ Katō Shōzō (fig. 17).27 Brockhaus started buying from Katō in 1908.

From Katō’s letterhead, we can assume that he also operated in Osaka.

Inada Hōgitarō (1869–?) is mainly known for assisting scholars such as Lawrence Binyon of the British Museum and Albert James Koop of the Victoria & Albert Museum. He was initially employed at Ikeda Seisuke’s London branch office, which closed down after 1893.

Inada then opened a shop at 78, Guildford Street near Russel Square.28 Brockhaus bought there just as frequently as he did at Katō’s.

A ‘newcomer’ on the scene was Ernest Edward Evison (1865–1932) who established himself probably around 1907 under the name E. Evison & Co., Direct Importers of Japanese & Chinese Fancy Goods, at 48–50 St. Mary Axe, London, EC 3. His import company is

16.

Yamanaka & Co. Bond Street, London. from: Yamamoto Maezaki, Masako, ‘Innovative trading strategies for Japanese art. Ikeda Seisuke, Yamanaka & Co. and their overseas branches (1870s–1930s)’.

In: Acquiring cultures, histories of world art on western market (Savoy, B., and Ch. Guichard, Ch. Howald, eds), DeGruyter, Berlin & Boston, p. 235, fig. 3.

17.

Postcard with a sketch of the Katō shop by Minakata Kumagusu. Dated 1903.

Source: https://www.minakata. org/facility/collections/ londongiga/.

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listed in Yokohama until 1905.29 Brockhaus probably only bought there once.

When the collections of Seymour Trower (1843–1912) and W. L. Behrens (1861–1913) came up for sale, Brockhaus became an insatiable bidder. Between October 1876 and June 1910, Harry Seymour Trower collected about 1800 netsuke30 (2500 according to Brockhaus31) amongst other objects.32 Two years before his death he gave instructions concerning the disposal of his collection. In a letter to his heirs and executors dated 19 May 1911, he wrote that the netsuke should first be offered to W. L. Behrens. If that did not work out, then a catalogue of the best quality should be produced, and efforts made to offer the collection to buyers worldwide. He suggested Bing as a useful agent. In the next to last sentence, he wrote, ‘Communicate with Brockhaus (Leipzig) and Brinkmann (Hamburg)’.33 In 1912 Seymour Trower donated his finest pieces to the British Museum.

However, against his wishes, the collection was dispersed by auction at Glendining & Co. from 31 March to 7 April 1913, when Henry L. Joly (1876—1920), was in charge. At Brockhaus’ request, who at the time was interested in netsuke with the signatures of Masanao and Tomokazu, Joly bid for him on several lots resulting in the purchase of a total of 48 netsuke. Brockhaus was not quite satisfied with the pieces he got and after the sale, he remarked that one should not buy pieces unseen.34 Buying lots that included only one Masanao or Tomokazu netsuke resulted in acquiring pieces he was not interested in.

Only eight months after the Seymour Trower sale, the enormous Behrens collection was dispersed by auction after the owner’s untimely and sudden death. W. L. Behrens (fig. 18) and Brockhaus must have been ‘Seelenverwandte’ (soulmates), having similar tastes for large early and highly expressive figures, Chinese carvings (tōbori), as well as

18.

19.

Walter L. Behrens

Netsuke of a laughing

(1861–1913). Presumably

foreigner. Ivory. H. 14 cm.

1913. from: Michael O. Sear, ‘How I started collecting netsuke’.

From Joly, H. L., W. L. Behrens Collection, Part I. Netsuke, Paragon Book Reprint Corp., New York 1966, plate XL, no. 3301.

In: International Netsuke Society Journal, Vol.20, No. 3, Fall 2000, p. 42, fig. 1.

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Christian and foreign subjects, turned into netsuke. Brockhaus bought a total of about 350 pieces at the sales of 1 December 1913 and 19 May 1914. The prices ranged from 6 to 270 Mark, with pieces above 100 Mark, however, being quite rare. The highest price he paid was 270 Mark (€ 1431) for a 14 cm–high foreigner (fig. 19).

Epilogue In July 1914 the First World War broke out and for Brockhaus, everything changed, including putting an end to his collecting activities. In 1917 his wife died and Brockhaus was grief– stricken.35 Both his younger brother Franz and his son Hans took active roles in the war and their fate was a constant worry to Brockhaus.

In 1919 both men returned unscathed from the war front and resumed the management of the publishing house. Albert Brockhaus withdrew from social life, lived part–time on the ‘Berg’, the villa built by his grandfather Heinrich Brockhaus on the slopes of the river Elbe in Dresden–Löschwitz, and delved into the history of the Brockhaus family.

Following a thyroid operation from which he did not recover, Brockhaus died on 27 March 1921. The netsuke collection remained with his son who was able to take along the collection with him when — after wartime destruction of the company compound — the Brockhaus publishing company was one of the few chosen by the OMGUS (Office of Military Government for Germany) to be relocated to Wiesbaden in June 1945.

The Brockhaus Collection is remarkable for its encyclopedic approach and the collector’s predilection for systematically and meticulously gathering information that he indexed and rubrified. Albert Brockhaus was bitten by the collecting bug to an extent that he searched for netsuke everywhere, even acquiring them on vacation in places

such as Florence, Nice and Monte Carlo. He travelled the continent — the Netherlands and Amsterdam, where he bought from van Veen (unidentified) and Komter who have not been mentioned here — and crossed the English Channel. He truly was an international collector.

The information on the cards shed light on the early availability and marketing of netsuke — and by extension also Japanese art in general — in the years from 1895 to 1914. We have seen how in the early stages in Germany the market for Japanese works of art was in the hands of the tea and general goods importers. Some were based in Berlin, but many were scattered all over Germany (Hamburg, Leipzig, Dresden, Cologne, Frankfurt and Munich) compelling the avid collector to travel. In contrast, in France and England, the market was centred in Paris and London. Both countries had a long tradition of importing goods from the East and distributing them through auction. At the time Brockhaus became active as a netsuke collector in the mid–1890s, Bing and Hayashi dominated the market for Japanese art in Paris and the collections of the ‘first generation’ japoniste collectors were being sold through auction, whilst a decade later the collector found his prime supply of netsuke in London with three Japanese dealers.

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NOTES 1 This article is based on the index cards accompanying the netsuke

visits to the Brockhaus branch company established in 1890.

sold at Lempertz. At the auction preview, the photocopies of these index

11 Klefisch, in: Bulletin Association Franco–Japonaise, op. cit., p. 10.

cards were available for inspection. The author is indebted to Adrian

12 Brockhaus, A., Netsuke, Versuch einer Geschichte der japanischen

Heindrichs of Lempertz for supporting her research. For the auction report

Schnitzkunst, F. A. Brockhaus, 3rd ed., Leipzig 1925, p. 313.

see Jirka–Schmitz, P., ‘On the Continent’, in: International Netsuke Society

13 The following paragraphs are based on the Brockhaus correspondence

Journal, vol. 10, no. 3, fall 2020, pp. 37–45 and the same, ‘Ventes été 2020,

with Hayashi as published in: Correspondance adressé à Hayashi Tadamasa,

Lempertz, le 27 juin 2020, Cologne, la vente Brockhaus’, in: Le Bulletin

Institut de Tokyo, Institution Administrative Indépendante Centre

Association Franco–Japonaise, no. 146, autumn 2020, no page nos. The

National de Recherche pour les Propriétés Culturelles, Tokyo 2001,

references to invoices or letters are based in most cases on publications

pp. 262–263.

by Trudel Klefisch, referred to in the appropriate endnote. Biographical

14 Ibid., p. 279.

information on Brockhaus has been taken from: Betriebsfeiern bei F. A.

15 Ibid., p. 309.

Brockhaus (Keiderling, T., ed.) Sax–Verlag, Beucha 2001. Also see Jirka–

16 Hara Shinkichi (1868–1934) worked for Justus Brinckmann at the

Schmitz, P., ‘Der Netsuke–Sammler Albert Brockhaus. Eine Spurensuche

Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe in Hamburg and was allowed to act as

in Leipzig‘, in: Ostasiatische Zeitschrift, Nr. 41, Frühjahr 2021, pp. 59–63.

a consultant for a variety of European museums and private collectors.

2 Klefisch, T., ‘Albert Brockhaus (1850–1921)’, in: Bulletin Association

In the years 1896 to around 1906 either Hara visited Brockhaus in Leipzig

Franco–Japonaise, no. 59, January 1998, p. 6.

or Brockhaus sent his index cards and sometimes netsuke to Hamburg

3 Meier–Graefe, J., Geschichten neben der Kunst, S. Fischer Verlag, Berlin

and Hara would read the signature and comment on the subject matter,

1933, pp. 94, 101–102.

writing directly on the Brockhaus cards in his large, elegant script.

4 This price in Euro is the buying power equivalent as given by the

17 Klefisch, T., ‘Albert Brockhaus’, in: International Netsuke Society Journal,

Deutsche Bundesbank (August 2019).

vol. 18, no. 4, winter 1998, p. 25 and 150 Jahre Freundschaft Deutschland–

5 For Taen Arr Hee and his family see: Altena, M., ‘Een geschiedenis die

Japan. 120 Netsuke from the Brockhaus collection plus a few masterpieces from

iedereen kende. Het huwelijk van Mia Cuypers met Frederick Taen (1883–

others, 2010, preface by Trudel Klefisch, p. 4.

1899)’, in: Migrantenstudies, no. 1, 2011, pp. 118–144 and Van den Bossche, P.

18 Yamamoto Maezaki, Masako, ‘Innovative trading strategies for

et al., Bij Ensor op bezoek, Pandora, Brasschaat 2010, pp. 125–136, 256–257.

Japanese art. Ikeda Seisuke, Yamanaka & Co. and their overseas branches

6 The third auction took place at the Dorotheum on 20–25 May 1919 in

(1870s–1930s)’, in: Acquiring cultures, histories of world art on western markets

Vienna.

(Savoy, B., and Ch. Guichard, Ch. Howald, eds), Walter de Gruyter, Berlin

7 Ludwig Glenk founded a papeterie and antique shop in 1886 on

& Boston 2018, pp. 227–229.

Unter den Linden 47. Under the management of Max Heppner, the store

19 See: http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/s/s.-m.-franck-and-co.-

turned into a shop for luxury goods, advertising his shop with the phrase

ltd./

‘Wertvolle Altertümer, Alte östliche Kunst, Ausgrabungen, Frühe Kunst

20 Koyama, N., ‘Ernest Hart (1835–1898)’, in: Britain and Japan: biographical

aller Völker’.

Portraits, Vol. VIII, pp. 257–265. See: https://brill.com/view/book/

8 H. Saenger, according to his letterhead an importer of ‘Japan und

edcoll/9789004246461/B9789004246461–s020.xml (accessed 18.8.2020).

China Waren', sold an interesting collection of Korean objects of daily

21 The first sales were in the spring of 1897, the next one shortly after his

use belonging to the royal family and ethnographic artefacts to the

death at Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge on 7 and 8 July 1898, followed by a

Ethnographical Museum in Leipzig, Japanese ceramics to the Museum für

sale at Christie, Manson & Woods on 12–16 December 1898. Three years

Kunst und Gewerbe, and a collection of nō masks to the ethnographical

later in 1902, the British Museum purchased 225 and eight albums from

museum, both in Hamburg. He also mounted an exhibition of Japanese

his widow Alice Marian Hart. A sale with objects from his collection was

colour woodblock prints on his own premises in 1909.

held in Paris on 9–10 June 1904.

9 Emery, E., ‘Madame Desoye, ‘first woman importer’ of Japanese art in

22 rockhaus, op. cit., p. 85 and p. 465.

nineteenth–century Paris’, in: Journal of Japonisme, vol. 5, no. 1, 2020, pp.

23 Yamamoto Maezaki, Masako, op. cit., p. 232 and Checkland, O., Japan

1–46.

and Britain after 1859 — creating cultural bridges, Routledge Curzon, London

10 Also, in 1896 the first congress of publishers was held in Paris, which

2003, pp. 192–193.

Brockhaus certainly attended. Business trips to Paris may have included

24 150 Jahre Freundschaft Deutschland–Japan, op. cit., p. 5.

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25 Meinertzhagen, F., The art of the netsuke carver, Routledge and Kegan Paul, London 1956, p. 55.

26 Ibid.

27 Source: https://www.minakata.org/facility/collections/londongiga/ (accessed 21.12.2020).

28 Yamamoto Maezaki, op. cit., pp. 230–231.

29 Source: http://meiji-portraits.de (accessed 21.12.2020).

30 This is the number generally cited. The catalogue of the H. Seymour Trower collection of Japanese art (1913) lists 886 netsuke lots. Most lots included two, three or four netsuke.

31 Brockhaus, op. cit., p. 85.

32 Harry Seymour Trower was a gentleman of independent means who owned a townhouse in London and enjoyed his country home in Weybridge, Surrey. No profession could be determined, except for his position as Chairman of the Executive committee of the Navy League from 1896 to 1909. Furthermore, he was a member of the Council of the Japan Society.

33 Bushell, R., ‘Questions & Answers’, in: INCS Journal, vol. 4, no. 3, December 1976, p. 44. Bushell here publishes (verbatim and complete) a copy of Trower’s letter contained in the catalogue of the H. Seymour Trower collection of Japanese art, in the collection of J. van Daalen. See also the introduction by Henri L. Joly in the above–mentioned Seymour Trower catalogue, p. i.

34 Klefisch, T., in: International Netsuke Society Journal, op. cit., p. 26 and Klefisch, in: Bulletin Association Franco–Japonaise, op. cit., p. 12.

35 Keiderling, op. cit., p. 224.

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The Paradox of the 'Horror Comic':

Conveying Fear in the Manga of Itō Junji Michael Crandol

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1.

Umezz Kazuo’s Cat Eyed Boy and Itō Junji's Shiver © 2006 Kazuo UMEZZ/ SHOGAKUKAN, and Itō Junji’s Shiver © JI Inc./Asahi Shimbun Publications Inc.

The horror genre has a lengthy history in the comics medium. In the 1950s, American comics series like Tales from the Crypt fell under intense scrutiny from watchdog groups for supposedly traumatising and perverting young readers with their horrific and disturbing content. This backlash ultimately resulted in the creation of the Comics Code Authority, reducing the once varied output of the industry to an almost exclusive regimen of superhero fare that largely continues to this day. In Japan, meanwhile, horror manga has enjoyed more than a half–century of steady popularity, from the work of Umezz Kazuo in the late 1960s to the internationally acclaimed 21st century tales by Itō Junji (fig. 1).

The vitality of the horror genre in the Japanese manga industry contributes significantly to its celebrated robustness as the most generically varied comics culture on the global stage.

In contrast to the superhero–dominated American comics market, manga’s many genres offer something for every taste.

Studies by Adam Kern, Ōtsuka Eiji and others have shown that the comic book and manga mediums are largely translations of cinematic grammar into still images. By breaking the page into a sequential series of panels, the manga artist arranges their static visuals into ‘shots’ that replicate the varied camera angles of the moving image, arguably making the experience of reading a manga more akin to that of watching a film than of reading a novel or short story. This suggests that film theory may be usefully applied to the case of manga, but does this hold true for the horror genre, which depends largely on the inherent movement of the cinematic image to trigger an immediate, visceral reaction in the audience?

As a scholar and a fan of both horror and manga, I have long been fascinated by the seeming paradox of ‘the horror comic’.

How is it possible for unmoving cartoon images, laid out in a progression of panels,

to convey the affects of fear, shock, surprise, terror, and dread that are essential to the horror genre? Theories of how the horror film effectively works to frighten audiences frequently hinge upon what cognitive film theorist Carl Plantinga identifies as the ‘direct affect’ of the cinematic image.1 In the case of the horror genre, direct affect concerns the ability to startle viewers with immediate, photorealistic moving imagery of monstrous and dangerous phenomena, eliciting visceral, physical responses from the audience in what Adam Charles Hart has recently called ‘the sensational address’ of moving image horror.2 Manga faces two immense hurdles according to the direct affect theory of cinema. The lack of the image’s ability to move within time and its caricatured, ‘cartoonish’ visual style would seem to imply that manga is incapable of creating the ‘sensational address’ that is the main site of appeal for fans of the horror genre.

Responding to theories of cinema, affect, and the horror genre by Linda Williams, Carl Plantinga, Charles Adam Hart, and Noël Carroll, this article will examine the work of Itō Junji to demonstrate how Japanese horror manga circumvents the direct–affect problem via three points: strategic panelisation of images that create a ‘static sensational address’; an emphasis on the inert grotesque; and Itō’s character design, which intentionally aims for the ‘uncanny valley’ between more traditional, stylised manga characters and anatomically correct, realistic depictions of human beings. Itō’s horror manga thereby compensate for the still image’s inability to move within time, translating the terror inherent in the direct affect of horror film to the drawn page.

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Cinematic Grammar in the Manga Medium Japanese manga, like its comic book cousins in the West, constitutes a marriage of pictorial and written elements in the service of narrative storytelling. Unlike an illustrated novel or short story, which forms a coherent text capable of being understood even if the illustrations are omitted, manga’s meaning utterly depends on the pictorial component.

This tradition of what Adam Kern has called the ‘visual–verbal imagination’ in Japanese art and literature has precedent in the kibyōshi of the Edo Period (1603–1868), popular works of published fiction in which written descriptions and dialogue complemented a sequential

series of images (fig. 2). This has led to claims that Japan ‘invented’ the comic book format a century before the West, though as Kern as shown, kibyōshi fundamentally differ from both manga and Western comics, especially in the way the latter break the page up into a series of panels that suggest movement in time: “manga can be described in the main as a kind of visual analogue of the film since the serial nature of its multiple panels within each page either takes its inspiration from, or else closely resembles, the sequential unfolding of frames on the celluloid spool”.3 It is surely no coincidence that both the Western comic strip and Japanese manga originate in the early twentieth century, concurrent with the rise of the cinematic medium.

2.

3.

Pages from a kibyōshi by

Artist Scott McCloud

Tōrai San'na and Kitao

explains “the gutter” in

Masayoshi, Meguriau oyako

Understanding Comics.

no zenigoma (1793).

Private collection, The Netherlands.

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From the outset, comics and manga creators were thinking cinematically in the construction of their art. The panelisation of the manga or comic book page effectively replicates the various camera positions of the moving image. The layout of virtually all manga (and comics) panels adhere to the Classical Hollywood style of continuity editing – in other words, the sequential arrangement of shots in a manner that guides the viewer through the narrative.4 Story sequences in the Classical Hollywood style frequently begin with a wide ‘establishing shot’ that orient the viewer or reader by introducing the setting and the characters’ physical positions within it. This is followed by a series of closeup ‘shot–reverse shots’ alternating between the various characters’ dialogue and actions, with occasional ‘re–establishing shots’ to reorient the audience as the characters move about the scene. The Classical Hollywood technique of ‘match on action’ – in which an action begun in one shot carries over into the next shot to reinforce temporal–spatial continuity – is also frequently replicated in the panelisation of manga/comics. Ōtsuka Eiji and others in the Department of Manga Media at the Kobe Design University have made a further case for analysing manga in terms of cinema, identifying the ways in which successive manga panels adopt the varying angles of the movie camera to convey certain conventions of meaning implicit in high–angle and low–angle shots. Their work also observes that the inherently cinematic nature of manga panelisation lends itself to the seamless adaptation to film, as the manga pages constitute premade storyboards that map out the exact staging of each shot.5 The role the spectator plays in cognitively creating the meaning of the cinematic image likewise parallels theories of how comics and manga convey meaning. American comics creator Scott McCloud suggests that the missing movement of the static manga or

comics image is mentally inserted by the reader into the ‘gutter’ – comics jargon for the blank space on the page in–between panels (fig. 3). As each panel can only represent a frozen instant of time, it is up to the reader to stitch the panels together into a cohesive whole that suggests movement in time and space. As McCloud puts it, “I may have drawn the axe being raised…but I’m not the one who let it drop or decided how hard the blow”.6 McCloud’s theory of the gutter functions in much the same way cinema ultimately relies on the viewer’s mind to stitch together the various shots of a film scene into a single, cohesive space that flows in linear time.

On a formal as well as a cognitive level, manga and the moving image operate in nearly identical fashion. This suggests that analysing manga might benefit from an application of approaches borrowed from film studies. A profuse amount of film theory on the horror genre exists, but how applicable is it in the case of horror manga?

The Direct Affect of Horror For all of manga’s affinities with the moving image, the inherently static nature of the medium’s individual panels puts it at odds with most theories of cinematic horror.

More so than perhaps any other genre of popular cinema, the horror film largely relies on movement–in–time to immediately and sensually manipulate its audience. In her seminal essay ‘Film bodies: gender, genre, excess’, Linda Williams suggests that a horror film creates a “lack of proper esthetic distance” between itself and the audience member’s physical body. Williams identifies three disreputable ‘body genres’ of film – horror, melodrama, and pornography – that operate via “a sense of over–involvement in sensation and emotion” and prompt physical reactions from the viewer (screaming, weeping, or sexual arousal).7 In the case

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of horror films, this reaction is most often achieved by what has come to be called the ‘jump–scare.’ A sequence of shots with minimal or misleading movement and sound is suddenly interrupted by an intrusive and usually quite loud shot of the monster or some other threatening or disturbing imagery.

The jump–scare often follows a suspenseful sequence of shots, during which the audience presumably squirms in knowing anticipation, but it also can come unexpectedly out of nowhere, as in the infamous final moments of Brian De Palma’s Carrie (1976).

The jump–scare relies on what Carl Plantinga calls the ‘direct affect’ of cinema.

As an audio–visual medium that is perceived rather than read, film prompts more visceral, spontaneous emotional reactions than literature. For example, Plantinga observes that reading about a man being suddenly bitten by a cobra typically does not produce the same startled, flinching reaction exhibited by moviegoers upon seeing a sudden close–up of a cobra on–screen.8 Adam Charles Hart has recently elaborated on the idea of direct affect as it relates especially to the horror genre, a phenomenon he calls ‘the sensational address’: “We don’t watch a horror movie the same way we watch other movies…It shocks and disturbs. It gives us nightmares. We scream, we jump, or at least we expect to. We want to…That unique engagement means that horror, even in a more narratively oriented mode or one that is less immediately sensational…locates its meaning in address.

That’s not to discount the possibility for genuinely absorbing storytelling or rich, complex characters, or to reject thematic analysis – but, rather, to assert that any account of those aspects of a work of horror must also reckon with the way it works on the [viewer’s] body.”9

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The way the sensational address works on the horror film viewer’s body, according to Plantinga, is that millennia of biologically hardwired human responses to danger partially override the viewer’s conscious knowledge that they are in no actual danger.10 This momentary override depends on a convincing audiovisual approximation of danger. If the image lacks sound, movement, or reasonable photorealism, the chances of its prompting a directly affective response diminish.

The hurdles for horror manga are apparent. Without sound, movement, and photorealism, how can horror manga even begin to approximate the ‘sensational address’ that Hart argues is essential to defining the genre of cinematic horror?

Itō Junji’s Static Sensational Address One aspect of horror film’s sensational address that manga can mimic is what I refer to as ‘the reveal.’ In his influential work on the genre, The Philosophy of Horror, Noël Carroll notes that a great many horror stories construct their narratives around the theme of the discovery of the monstrous. First, the existence of something monstrous is hinted at to the viewer or reader. A select character or characters gradually become aware of the threat. They then seek to confirm its existence and finally confront the monstrous in the climax.11 The horror story thereby becomes a vehicle through which to satisfy the audience’s curiosity to see the monster, to look upon that which is forbidden to see.

Accordingly, in horror films, the moment of confirmation is often the pivotal moment of the viewing experience. Prior to this moment the camera frequently withholds a good look at the monster. The first act of a horror film often shows the monster only in part – a fleeting shot of a limb, or a figure

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mostly concealed in shadow, underneath a mask, or behind a tangle of hair. Sometimes the monster isn’t shown at all in these early sequences, its presence evoked only by offscreen sound, or hidden behind the camera in point–of–view shots from the monster’s perspective. This all acts as a suspenseful build–up to the moment of the reveal, whetting the audience’s curiosity while also creating a sense of dread.

The seminal ‘reveal’ moment in horror cinema history is likely the iconic scene in The Phantom of the Opera (1925) in which the curious opera singer Christine removes the Phantom’s mask, revealing Lon Chaney’s hideous face to the world and reportedly causing audience members to pass out in shock – the original jump–scare and ultimate manifestation of the directly affective sensational address (fig. 4). Later horror filmmakers refined the archetypal reveal pioneered in The Phantom of the Opera over the years. Christine shares the frame with the Phantom as she pulls off his mask from behind, and the monstrous visage is revealed to the audience before Christine herself sees and reacts to it with a predictable shriek of terror. More typical of later horror films is to show the protagonist’s terrified reaction to the reveal in a separate shot before the reveal itself. This anticipatory shot serves

as a final, exclamatory punctuation mark to the suspenseful build–up sequence that precedes the reveal. It tells the audience look! (and scream!) – and horror audiences frequently do both. The shot–reverse–shot of Classical Hollywood continuity editing plays an essential role in the effectiveness of this one–two punch.

Manga author Itō Junji clearly understands the concept of the Classical Hollywood–style reveal and its central place in the horror genre’s conventional narrative framework, utilising the technique in his earliest published work. Itō got his start in the manga industry with the serialisation of Tomie in the monthly manga magazine Gekkan Halloween from 1987–1999. Tomie, Itō’s longest–running series, has virtually no overriding plotline. Most chapters consist of standalone vignettes linked only by the presence of the title character – an immortal, demonic femme fatale who incites men (and women) to acts of madness and murder.

The victim of these acts of insane violence is often Tomie herself, who later physically regenerates in grotesque sequences of body horror to the terror of the other characters.

The revelation that Tomie cannot be killed – the ‘confirmation’ moment of her monstrosity – becomes the image around which Itō builds the entire story.

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The reveal: Christine unmasks The Phantom of the Opera (1925).

Universal Studios.

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Tomie and Itō’s many other works of horror manga employ a strategic layout of panels to mimic the inverted reaction/ reveal shot sequences of horror cinema. The sequence splits across two pages, with the reaction panel placed in the bottom–left corner of the first page. To underline the instructional function of the reaction panel, the dialogue frequently admonishes the other characters (and the reader) to “Look!” (“mite!”) (fig. 5).12 The reader ideally then turns the page to do just that.13 The act of turning the page reveals the shocking, monstrous imagery to which the reader has been enjoined to look upon; we become Christine, unmasking the Phantom ourselves.

Early instalments of Tomie devote roughly half a page to the reveal panel (fig. 6), but as Itō developed his technique the reveals eventually come to occupy almost the entire page, emphasising their spectacular nature.

The build–up to the reveal also becomes more protracted and suspenseful, often using as many as six to ten panels to convey the action of a single moment in which the character is confronted with the monstrous. Itō’s reveals arguably reached their artistic apex in Uzumaki, his most critically acclaimed work.

A Lovecraftian tale of a small town beset by a malevolent cosmic force that manifests in a variety of spiral–shaped phenomena, Uzumaki taps into the hypnotic graphic qualities of the spiral pattern to figuratively draw the reader into the horror. The protracted setup that anticipates one of Uzumaki’s more gruesome, nearly full–page reveals demonstrates how Itō’s technique had evolved from the early days of Tomie (figs. 7 and 8).14

5.

Reaction precedes reveal in Tomie. Tomie: Complete Deluxe Edition © JI Inc./Asahi Shimbun Publications Inc.

Itō plays with the technique somewhat here, experimenting with placing the anticipatory reaction shot in a small panel at the top of the same page of the reveal. As the manga reader’s eye typically first moves to the largest image on the page – as well as naturally zeroing in on the centre of the

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6.

The reveal (Tomie). Tomie: Complete Deluxe Edition © JI Inc./Asahi Shimbun Publications Inc.

spiral pattern that is Uzumaki’s particular manifestation of the monstrous – this potentially disrupts the reaction/reveal pattern that lends the moving horror image its startling effect. In later instalments of Uzumaki Itō almost always reverts to placing the reaction panel in the bottom left corner of the previous page. The subsequent reveal typically now takes up the entire page, which in effect becomes one big, spectacular panel.

Figures 9 and 10, from about midway through Uzumaki’s run, represent the mature phase of Itō’s ‘static sensational address’.15

Itō’s reveals are miniature masterpieces of suspense and their mechanics faithfully replicate the grammar of horror film but ultimately rely on the reader’s physical manipulation of the pages to deliver the shocking moment. Because the reader decides when to turn the page, they maintain constant, conscious control over the reveal itself. This represents the inverse of how Linda Williams, Carl Plantinga, Adam Charles Hart, and many other horror film theorists understand the horror film to work. Moving image horror incites startles, shocks, and

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screams by manipulating the viewer, who has no control over when or how they encounter the reveal. The way in which the manga author arranges the panels can suggest speed of movement to a degree, and in the case of Itō’s horror manga, relying on the gutter can draw out suspense in the reader’s mind.

The punctuation, however, the intrusive moment of sensational address when the moving image takes control away from the viewers of body genres like horror, remains in the readers’ hands. Horror manga can unsettle, disturb, and even partially mimic the experience of horror film, though the medium inherently lacks the ability to make the reader jump right out of their seat.

The Inert Grotesque The reveals of horror film not only appear suddenly and without the audience’s ability to stop them (short of fleeing the theatre or turning off the television). They also feature threatening monsters in motion, often lunging directly at the camera (and, implicitly, the viewer). This represents another key element of the jump–scare, as our nervous systems instantaneously react to the perceived danger of something coming towards us. Frozen in time, manga’s static images simply cannot trigger the flight–or–fight adrenaline rush of the filmic ‘sensational address’.

Itō’s works of horror manga recognise this limitation and instead play to the medium’s static, unmoving visuality. While his stories certainly contain their share of threatening, mobile monsters that pursue the human characters through tense sequences of action, such sequences are seldom initiated by the reveal moment. Instead, the horror of the reveal often lies in the revelation of something horrific but inert, such as the embryonic, regenerating Tomie in Figure 6, or the many disfigured corpses that are frequently the payoff to a reveal throughout Uzumaki (figs.

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7.

Protracted buildup to a reveal in Uzumaki.

UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

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8.

Experimenting with the reveal in Uzumaki.

UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

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order”.17 According to Carroll, the monstrous inspires feelings of disgust and loathing via its abject, categorically interstitial nature – neither one thing nor another, but something in–between.18 This can be a combination of biologically incompatible entities into a single being such as the Wolf Man or the Creature from the Black Lagoon, or the horror genre’s many bloody, half–rotting ghosts, wraiths, vampires and zombies, which are all in– between life and death.

Crucially for horror manga, the abject need not be animated in order to work its affective spell on the beholder. If Itō and other horror comic artists seem to overindulge in crass displays of the grotesque, they are simply playing to the strengths of the static visual image, and perhaps attempting a means of compensating for the lack of direct affect crucial to the moving–image specimens of the genre. Itō’s most gleefully grotesque manga series, Gyo, concerns a technologically engineered disease that renders its victims obese, morbidly flatulent, and immobile, allowing them to fall victim to rogue AI machines with spiderlike appendages that use the human gas for fuel.19 The later chapters

9.

Uzumaki – the static reveal perfected. UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

11 and 12).16 In place of the primal sense of danger affected by the horror film, Itō’s manga strive to pique a sense of repulsion via their graphic, grotesque displays of the abject.

Though distinct from the concept of ‘direct affect’, repulsion and abjection are two widely discussed hallmarks of the horror genre and frequent components of Hart’s ‘sensational address’. Drawing on Julia Kristeva’s Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, horror theorists such as Barbara Creed and Noël Carroll note the depiction of the monstrous in horror texts are invariably characterised by a notion of the abject, that which “disturbs identity, system,

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of Gyo become, literally, a macabre circus as at one point the spider machines and their human fuel cells perform carnival tricks, and page after page reveals a parade of Itō’s most disturbing and repulsive visions (fig. 13).

Itō’s transgressions of the boundaries of taste are part of the venerable tradition that Adam Lowenstein calls ‘spectacle horror’, something he finds in cinema as far back as 1895’s The Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots and its exploitative depiction of Mary’s beheading, complete with the executioner holding the decapitated head aloft for the camera. Spectacle horror, and Itō’s displays of the grotesque, appeals to “sheer visual curiosity and visceral sensation”. Lowenstein calls this a “playful mode of attraction, where the cinema showman seems to address the

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10.

Uzumaki – the static reveal perfected. UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

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11.

A grotesque reveal in Uzumaki. UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

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12.

A grotesque reveal in Uzumaki. UZUMAKI © 2010 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

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audience directly with sentiments such as ‘Can you handle this?’ ‘Can you believe I’m showing you this?’ ‘Isn’t that gross?’ and ‘You know you wanted to see that!’”.20 This, of course, is also what the reveal is all about – satisfying the viewer’s desire to look upon the forbidden. The transgressive, offensive audacity of Itō’s most grotesque visions aligns them further with the sensational address of moving image horror.

Approaching the Uncanny Valley The final method Itō employs to overcome the limitations of horror manga’s ability to directly affect its audience is a style of character design that hews closer to ‘the uncanny valley’ than the more caricatured look of typical manga. Although the term was coined by robotics professor Mori Masahiro to describe the spectrum of human emotional response to robots, since the rise of computer– generated animation in the 1990s and 2000s ‘the uncanny valley’ has become a central argument in film studies. Mori’s original hypothesis was that the more human a robot appears to be, the more uncomfortable actual humans are in its presence. Approximating but not quite achieving ‘real humanity’, the android’s uncanny nature triggers feelings of unease and even abject repulsion.21 When computer–generated imagery allowed for the possibility of creating photorealistic animated characters, filmmakers were initially quick to realise its potential. A slew of photorealistic animated films appeared at the turn of the millennium, including Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within (2001), The Polar Express (2004), and Beowulf (2007), all of which were met with near–universal criticism for the strange, unsettling, and ultimately unconvincing visual realisation of their characters. Like Mori’s robots, these characters were ‘almost but not quite’ human, falling into the chasm of the uncanny valley.

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Ironically, the more caricatured, ‘cartoony’ design of traditional animated characters carried a greater sense of believability about them, a lesson Walt Disney’s animators learned back in the 1930s after experiments with more anatomically correct human characters in short films like The Goddess of Spring (1934) were abandoned in favour of the more fanciful, caricatured style that characterised Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) and Disney’s subsequent animated features.

One of Disney’s signature caricatured visual hallmarks are the ‘big eyes’ of characters like Bambi and Sleeping Beauty, a flourish famously emulated by Tezuka Osamu, the father of manga widely credited with creating the manga/anime style familiar the world over. Today ‘big eyes’ are more commonly associated with a Japanese animation and manga style than with Disney,22 and with the popularity of the kawaii and moe aesthetics of recent decades, anime and manga ‘big eyes’ have become even bigger in order to exaggerate the cute, childlike look of the character (fig. 14).

Big eyes are ubiquitous in manga, even the work of horror manga authors like Umezz Kazuo and Hino Hideshi, but pick up an Itō Junji manga and one finds atypical resistance to the prevailing aesthetic.23 Nor will one find the exaggerated, childlike proportions typical of both Japanese manga and anime as well as the Disney house style. As can be seen in the previous figures of Itō’s work that appear in this article, his characters have noticeably smaller eyes and much more anatomically accurate proportions than the typical cartoon character. Though not quite in the uncanny valley, Itō intentionally aims closer to it than his fellow horror manga creators.

The almost–but–not–quite naturalism of Itō’s style lacks the warmth and appeal of more traditionally drawn manga and anime characters, but that’s precisely the intention.

13.

Itō’s masterpiece of the grotesque, Gyo. GYO © 2002 JI Inc./SHOGAKUKAN.

14.

An example of “big eye” style in Azuma Kiyohiko’s Azumanga daioh.

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The characters of Tomie, Uzumaki, and Gyo were never meant to adorn the plethora of multimedia merchandise tie–ins that are the financial lifeblood of other manga genre franchises. Their commercial success depends on their ability to unnerve and disturb. By approaching the edge of the uncanny valley, they do just that. Itō’s more naturalistic imagery, more recognisably human and yet so out–of–place in the hyper–caricatured worlds of manga, unsettles the comfortable boundaries of the medium. His monsters and grotesques might provoke a sense of whimsy in a more cartoonish visual environment, but unburdened by the demand to sell plush figures, plastic models, or other ‘character goods’, Itō’s characters are free to engage in the commerce of affective horror.

Conclusion I have framed much of this discussion around the notion that horror manga’s inherently cinematic, yet static imagery must overcome disadvantages and limitations in its efforts to scare its audience. However, the dominant critical discourse surrounding horror film for much of the past century has held the sensational address or ‘jump–scare’ in low regard.24 For these critics, the prized affect of the genre is not a momentary, visceral reaction but a lingering sense of dread or terror that stays with the audience long after the film has ended – or the manga has been put back on the shelf. The mark of quality is not whether the work makes you scream and jump out of your seat, but if it makes you unable to sleep later that night when you turn off the light and crawl into bed. While startling moments of direct affect unique to the moving image may be one effective way of triggering this lingering feeling of terror, it is not the only means by which such terror may be evoked – otherwise, the nonvisual horror fiction of Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, or Suzuki Kōji would

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fail to capture the imaginations of readers.

Sitting at the crossroads of the visual–verbal imagination, manga approximates the visual grammar of the horror film genre, but its static narratology ultimately forces it to aim more towards instilling lingering terror in the audience’s imagination than overriding their nervous systems with viscerally shocking startles – which centuries of critics would deem no bad thing.

Itō Junji’s manga approach the sensational address of horror film and even manage to partially create what might be deemed a ‘static sensational address’ via a strategic panelisation that showcases the spectacular nature of the reveal – a key element of horror film grammar. However, the inherently static imagery short–circuits the directly affective nature of the moving image’s startling impact on the audience.

The manga viewer, always in control of when to turn the page and when to look at the panels, remains in command of their faculties, unlike the involuntary shrieking and screaming of the horror film viewer. But when they do choose to turn the page and confront the monstrous, Itō’s artwork greets them with inert grotesques that satisfy the latent desire to gaze upon the abject, repulsive, and forbidden that lies at the heart of the appeal of the horror genre. A rejection of the prevailing manga aesthetics of childlike proportions and big eyes, which deliberately situates the imagery nearer the uncanny valley, further works toward unsettling the viewer and arresting their imaginations.

Indeed, the manga viewer’s gaze may linger on the uncanny horror as long as their fascination with the macabre compels them to do so. Horror manga cannot startle but it can disturb, allowing us to glut our imaginations and imprint its disturbing imagery into our brains. The horror of Itō Junji is there when you turn out the light and crawl into bed.

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NOTES 1 Plantinga, C., Moving viewers: amaerican film and the spectator’s experience, University of California Press, Berkeley 2009, pp. 117–23.

2 See Hart, A. C., Monstrous forms: moving image horror across media, Oxford University Press, New York 2020.

3 Kern, A. L., Manga from the floating world: comicbook culture and the kibyōshi of Edo Japan, Harvard University Press, Cambridge 2006, p. 151.

4 The theory of Classical Hollywood style was developed by David Bordwell, Janet Staiger, and Kristen Thompson in The classical Hollywood cinema: film style and mode of production to 1960, Columbia University Press, New York 1985.

5 Yamamoto, Tadahiro, and Ōtsuka Eiji, Ishii Gakuryu, Hashimoto Eiji, Izumi Masafumi, ‘Manga ni okeru eigateki shuhō no hikaku kenkyū: Ryūjin numa to Anrukkii yangu men’, in: Geijutsu kōgaku 2012.

6 McCloud, S., Understanding comics: the invisible art, HarperCollins, New York 1993, p. 66.

7 Williams, L., ‘Film bodies: gender, genre, and excess’, in: Film theory and criticism: introductory readings, 5th edition (Braudy, L., and M. Cohen, eds), Oxford University Press, New York 1999, p. 705.

8 Plantinga, op. cit., p. 117.

9 Hart, op. cit., pp., 22–23.

10 Plantinga, op. cit., pp. 117–118.

11 Carroll, N., The philosophy of horror: or paradoxes of the heart, Routledge, New York 1990, p. 99.

12 Itō Junji, Tomie, Viz Media, San Francisco 2016, pp. 79–80.

13 This effect depends on publishing the pages in a sequence that ensures the reaction and the reveal do not occur on facing pages, a point of which not all publishers are sensitive and often lies beyond the control of the manga author.

14 Itō, Uzumaki, Viz Media, San Francisco 2013, pp. 99–100.

15 Itō, op. cit. (2013), pp. 127–8.

16 Itō, op. cit. (2013), pp. 303–4.

17 Kristeva, J., Powers of horror: an essay on abjection (Roudiez, L., trans.), Columbia, New York 1982, p. 4. See also Creed, B., ‘Horror and the monstrous–feminine: an imaginary abjection’, in: Horror, the film reader (Jancovich, M., ed), Routledge, New York 2002, pp. 67–76.

18 Carroll, op. cit., pp. 17–24.

19 Itō, Gyo, Viz Media, San Francisco 2015, pp. 211–13.

20 Lowenstein, A., ‘Spectacle horror and hostel: why ‘torture porn’ doesn’t exist’, in: Critical quarterly 53, no. 1, April 2011, pp. 46–47.

21 Mori Masahiro, ‘Bukimi no tani genshō’, in: Energy, vol. 7, no. 4, 1970, pp. 33–35. For the application of Mori’s theory to film animation, see: Butler, M., and L. Joschko, ‘Final fantasy or the incredibles: ultra–realistic animation, aesthetic engagement and the uncanny valley’, in: Animation studies, vol. 4, 2009, pp. 55–63.

22 Condry, I., The Soul of anime: collaborative creativity and Japan’s media success story, Duke University Press, Durham 2013, pp. 102–3.

23 Some other manga artists like Otomo Katsuhiro also reject the dominant ‘big eye’ aesthetic.

Similar to Itō, this choice often seems intended to evoke a more ‘serious’ mood than the fanciful worlds of more typical commercial manga.

24 See Hutchings, P., The horror film, Pearson, Edinburgh 2004, pp. 134–9.

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Obituary

Roger Keyes, dear friend

Our dear Roger Keyes died peacefully at home in November of last year, cared for by his loving wife Elizabeth Coombs, in the English medieval city of York, just metres from the famous cathedral where he frequently worshipped. As many of you will be well aware, Roger was a preeminent figure in ukiyo–e studies and one of the great print connoisseurs of his generation. He lectured and taught widely and catalogued many important collections. He influenced numerous collectors, curators and fellow scholars. Roger will be remembered for his prodigious memory, generous nature, engaging, enthusiastic personality and infectious laugh. His many publications, a few of which I will discuss below, are amongst the most useful and essential writings for collectors and scholars in our field. Written in a deceptively simple prose style, they show enormous empathy and his belief in the power of art to heal and transform.

Israel Goldman

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1.

2.

Roger’s seventieth birthday

Viewing Yoshitoshi prints in

party in Hampstead,

Aerdenhout, Netherlands,

London, 2012. Left to

1990s. Left to right: Ed

right: Aenea Keyes, Roger,

Freis, Roger and Henk

Elizabeth Coombs and

Herwig.

Israel Goldman.

Roger was born in 1942 in Upstate New York and moved to the Philippines at an early age. As a teenager, he met the celebrated artist Fernando Zobel who became his first mentor. Zobel, the founder of the first museum of modern art in Spain, was also a sophisticated collector of European and Japanese prints. After a year at the International Christian University in Tokyo, Roger entered Harvard. Through the good offices of Zobel, Roger met Ray Lewis, the doyen of American print dealers whose gallery was in San Francisco. Ray had a universal eye and extremely high standards. Unusually, he dealt both in Old Master and Japanese prints, as well as Indian paintings. After the death of his father, Roger left Harvard to work with Lewis. Roger was rigorously trained in the connoisseurship of Old Master prints but reported that he was largely self–taught in ukiyo–e through his reading of original Japanese texts and the study of major print collections in the West. Around this time, Roger married his first love Keiko Mizushima, whom he had met at the age of 16 while attending university in Japan. Keiko became

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an internationally acclaimed paper conservator. A model of graciousness and quiet integrity, she was adored by all who knew her. Tragically, she succumbed to cancer in 1989 at the age of 50.

Roger’s career as a print dealer reached its peak in 1974 at the first sale of the Henri Vever collection at Sotheby’s, London. Aware that the auction was one of the greatest ever to be held, Roger lined up dozens of commission bids from leading collectors and museums.

Against fierce competition, he bought a good number of the finest Vever masterpieces on behalf of David Rockefeller who later donated them to the Asia Society and Museum, New York. Shortly afterwards, Roger made the momentous decision to give up dealing in order to focus solely on writing and teaching. In today’s art world, there are few barriers as scholars move freely between the worlds of commerce, academia and museums. However, at that time, Roger was held in some suspicion especially by the more conservative members of the academic world.

The fact that he was largely self–taught and employed

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intuition in his teachings did not help. In contrast, Roger was always held in the highest esteem by collectors and print curators, who shared his passion for the original objects and the connoisseur’s approach to art history.

Throughout his life, Roger taught and advised any number of important collectors. One of the first was Otto Riese whose collection is now in the Museum Angewandte Kunst, Frankfurt. A favourite anecdote that Roger loved to tell was that he once tried to dissuade Riese from buying a faded and somewhat damaged print by Eishōsai Chōki, whose prints are amongst the most beautiful in ukiyo–e.

Riese told him how much he loved the design and pointedly asked him, “Have you seen any other impressions of this print?” “No” replied Roger. “Do you know of any other similar designs by Chōki that are likely to come on the market?” asked Riese. Roger again replied, “No”, whereupon Riese said, “Thanks, I think if you don’t mind, I’ll keep this one then!”

Arthur and Charlotte Vershbow were also collectors with whom Roger formed a close relationship. He was

frequently in contact with them in the 1990s and helped them steer a route through the endless complexities of Japanese illustrated book editions. Many of Roger’s comments, lovingly preserved by Arthur Vershbow, still adorn the volumes which are now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Amongst current collectors who benefited from their friendship with Roger are Ed Freis, Jeffrey Pollard, and Arendie and Henk Herwig.

Roger first came to the attention of Japanese ukiyo–e scholars with his discovery of two unrecorded Sharaku prints which he had uncovered, together with Jack Hillier, when they viewed the collection of the Musée d’Art et d’Histoire in Brussels. (Two New Sharakus, in The Fascinating World of the Japanese Artist, Dutch Society for Japanese Arts and Crafts, 1972).

The Theatrical World of Osaka Prints (1973), commonly known as ‘the Philadelphia Catalogue’, written together with Keiko Mizushima Keyes, with its thorough lists of artists and discussion of key works, is one of the landmark publications in our field. Before Keyes and Mizushima,

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there was virtually nothing written in English on kamigata–e and it was key to the rehabilitation of an important and underappreciated genre of print collecting.

Are there current Osaka print collectors who do not view this seminal work as the ‘Bible’?

In 1980, Roger wrote the catalogue to the Los Angeles County Museum exhibition, titled The Bizarre Imagery of Yoshitoshi: The Herbert R. Cole Collection. Works by this extraordinary and, at the time, almost completely unrecognized Meiji artist struck an immediate chord with Roger. The exhibition was hugely popular and marked the beginning of American collectors’ love affair with the prints of Yoshitoshi. Roger later compiled a Yoshitoshi catalogue raisonné (Courage and Silence: A Study of the Life and Color Prints of Tsukioka Yoshitoshi) which remains highly useful.

Roger’s catalogue of the Mary Ainsworth Collection at Oberlin College was published in 1984. Ainsworth, an early 20th century collector, had unusual and anticipatory taste.

Instead of discussing the obvious designs from the collection, Roger highlighted the unusual and rare. Rather than simply go through the typical chronological history of ukiyo–e, Roger grouped the prints according to numerous themes, from the historical/cultural to the connoisseurial.

In my view, the book is perhaps the finest general introduction to Japanese prints ever written.

The volumes on the Chester Beatty Library’s important surimono collection were published in 1985. This was one of the first publications in which surimono were discussed together with the English translations of their poems. Roger’s essay on Meiji–era copies of earlier surimono at the end of the second volume provided the solution to what had been one of the key mysteries of 19th century Japanese prints, and a difficult and often costly problem for collectors, scholars and dealers alike. With great clarity, he discussed the publication history of the copies and, most importantly, listed the entire group and how to tell them from the originals.

Roger’s final solo exhibition project held at the New York Public Library in 2006–7 was Ehon: The Artist and the Book in Japan. Accompanied by one of the most beautifully

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printed of all volumes dedicated to Japanese art, the exhibition, which exposed an unfairly neglected genre, was greatly acclaimed. Roger wrote essays on seventy of his personal favourites amongst the Library’s collection and also included highly useful notes on their various editions.

His entry on Hokusai’s One Hundred Views of Mt. Fuji is notable for Roger’s inimitable connoisseurship. Who other than Roger would have discerned that the right– and left–hand pages of some compositions were carved by two different wood engravers specifically chosen by the artist? The exhibition catalogue resonates with Roger’s profound respect for the artists he admired and loved. It is a paean both to his spirituality and the art of looking.

Of course, Roger’s greatest contribution to ukiyo–e studies must be his complete catalogue of the nearly 5,000 single sheet prints by Hokusai. A tour–de–force of modern scholarship, the catalogue, which was decades in the making, fills some 90 volumes of notes and photographs.

Roger donated the entire catalogue to the British Museum in 2015. Tim Clark and other colleagues have entirely digitised the catalogue and a portion of it is now available for public study.

I first met Roger in the spring of 1980, during my junior year at Harvard, after attending his introductory lecture on Japanese prints at the Fogg Art Museum. I owned a few prints that I had bought in London when I was eleven and had read quite a bit about them in my art history studies, but I had never heard anyone speak with such passion, knowledge and insight on ukiyo–e. I approached Roger afterwards to thank him and he took an immediate interest in me, for which I’m forever grateful. I wound up spending that summer with him in California doing research on Utamaro for my senior honours thesis and discussing all manner of things relating to art, life and philosophy.

Roger warmly endorsed my own initial interest in joining the art trade. There is no school for art dealers, but Roger did his best to instil in me the ethics passed on to him by his own mentor Ray Lewis. After graduating, I moved to London to begin my career and Roger was always available to offer advice and encouragement. I am sure

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3.

Roger and Elizabeth Coombs in front of the cabinet containing Roger’s ninety–volume Hokusai catalogue raisonné compiled together with Peter Morse.

The British Museum, Japanese Section offices, 2017.

that had I not met him, my life would have taken a very different and less fortunate direction.

I am pleased to say that I believe I played a small part in Roger’s own happiness as it was through me that Roger met Elizabeth Coombs. Lizzie was a good friend of mine and fellow art history student at Harvard. When she expressed an interest in studying paper conservation, I strongly encouraged her to contact Keiko Keyes. Keiko found Elizabeth to be highly sympathetic and a few years later invited her to California to work with her on Japanese prints. It was at that time that Roger met Elizabeth whom he married in 1996.

From time to time, over nearly 40 years of friendship, I would have the precious opportunity to show Roger prints that I had acquired for sale. Roger and I would chat about mutual friends, dealers and collectors and he would invariably roar with laughter as one anecdote or other was told. Upon opening each cover of hōsho paper, he would recall the other examples that he had seen, as well as comment on the condition and quality of impression and

design. On one occasion, Roger asked me to look at a marvellous Koryūsai print of a parrot and cockatoo for him, which was coming up for auction at the Stoclet sale in London in 2004. Though he had not seen it in the flesh, upon my recommendation, he gave me a commission bid.

My bid was successful, but as he subsequently felt it was beyond his means, I sold it to a distinguished American collector whose family still treasure it. Some years later, upon seeing the print for the first time, Roger was so struck by its beauty, that he immediately burst into tears and I too was overcome. As Roger once wrote, ‘seeing is contagious,’ and viewing art with him was a wonderfully evocative and shared experience.

When Roger and Elizabeth decided to move to England in 2010, I was delighted, as it was wonderful to have them so close to hand. Tragically, Roger was diagnosed with a brain tumour four years later. Despite his illness, he was able to make significant contributions to the British Museum’s project ‘Late Hokusai: thought, technique, society’ (2016–2019), organized by Tim Clark,

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his good friend and colleague. He continued to participate in seminars, wrote an impressive introduction to the exhibition catalogue, and played an essential role in the BBC’s Hokusai documentary film. Amazingly, he made it to Japan for the opening of the exhibition at the Osaka venue.

In the impressive and extensive interview in Impressions 41 (Japanese Art Society of America, 2020), which I urge you all to read, Roger writes that Hokusai clearly had ‘an extremely rich inner life’. Surely this also applied to Roger. He was able to empathise with artists of the past through his own eyes and his extraordinary imagination. Roger also loved to share, and succeeded in communicating his passion with compelling words drawn

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from his profound knowledge and love of art. The death of any individual is tragic, but there is a unique sadness at the passing of a great connoisseur, with the loss of all that taste, knowledge and insight. I would like to end with a few of Roger’s own words which eloquently encapsulate his life’s work and philosophy on art: ‘My hope over the years . . . has been to help build a bridge or a doorway into this enchanted world so that you and others can wander in it as freely, comfortably, and enjoyably as I have, making your own discoveries and having your own, no doubt different, experiences.’ (Ehon, The Artist and The Book in Japan, New York Public Library / University of Washington Press, New York & Seattle 2006, p. 21).

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Celebrating Osaka’s Newest Tourist Attraction in 1834

Gakutei’s Fine Views of Mount Tenpō 1.

Takehara Shunchōsai, Miyako meisho zue (Illustrations of famous places in Kyoto), vol. 5, p. 61, 1786, published by Akisato Ritō.

Smithsonian Libraries, (library.si.edu/digital-library/ bookmiyakomeishozuev5akis).

Jack Quarrier Andon 111 43

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Introduction During the eighteenth century in Japan, the middle class became increasingly affluent, and travel was widely available to large segments of the population. As a result, monochrome illustrated travel guides, called meishoki (Guides of famous places), proliferated and became a means to plan or recall visits to distant locations. One such multi–volume guidebook was Miyako meisho zue (Famous places of the capital) illustrated by Takehara Shunchōsai (1772–1801 (fl.)). This guidebook was published in Osaka in 1786 and depicted the area around Kyoto. Most of the illustrations are panoramic, bird’s eye views, with minimal use of Western perspective techniques (e.g., fig. 1). A decade later, the multivolume guidebook Settsu meisho zue (Illustrations of famous places in Settsu province, British Museum 2002,085,0.2.9), which was also illustrated by Shunchōsai, included images of Osaka. Although this guidebook continued to have panoramic views, it also included some illustrations of maritime scenes that are compositionally closer to the prints of Yashima Gakutei (c. 1786–1868) discussed in this article.

In addition to illustrated guidebooks, travel along the roads of Japan was also a theme present in novels such as the humorous Tōkaidō chō hizakurige (Strolling along the Tōkaidō or Shank’s Mare) by Jippensha Ikku (1765–1831) produced serially from 1802–1809. Full–colour, single–sheet landscape prints began to flourish during the Tenpō era (1830–1844).

Although some monochrome travel guides continued to be produced for many years, they were soon joined by series of colour prints documenting sites along roads such as the Tōkaidō and the Kisokaidō. Of course, not all landscape series were meisho or actual travel guides. However, in Osaka, despite a rich print–making history, artists continued to focus on actor prints and rarely produced single–sheet landscape prints.

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An exception was Gakutei’s landscape series Naniwa meisho Tenpōzan shōkei ichiran (Famous places in Osaka: fine views of Mount Tenpō at a glance) from c. 1834. Like earlier travel guides, Gakutei’s landscape series included the word meisho in its title. In this case, the use of meisho places the set within a broad tradition which includes illustrated travel guides, images of famous places and landscapes evoking travel along Japan’s major thoroughfares. However, rather than a predominance of bird’s eye panoramas as seen in the guidebooks from 50 years earlier, Gakutei’s set, like other 1830s meisho, depicts close–up or middle–distance scenes of a local site with typical activities and greater realism.

The popularity of Mount Tenpō or Tenpōzan, which became a tourist destination in the early 1830s, resulted in its depiction in prints not only by Gakutei but also by Katsushika Hokusai, Shunkōsai Hokuei, Utagawa Hiroshige, Utagawa Kunisada and Gochōtei (Utagawa) Sadamasu. Nevertheless, unlike Gakutei who created a set of several views of the location, these other artists produced single images, rather than series. Except for Fine views of Mount Tenpō, Gakutei rarely produced landscapes or other subjects in ōban–format prints. Instead, Gakutei is best known for his surimono (privately distributed prints most often in square shikishiban format) and illustrated kyōka (playful poems).

Little is known about Gakutei’s early life and artistic training. He was the illegitimate son of a samurai named Hirata and was born around 1786 in Osaka. His mother subsequently married into the Yashima clan and Gakutei was given the name Yashima Sadaoka. He was raised by his mother in Aoyama, located in western Edo. His first artistic training was with Tsumi Shūei and later he likely studied with the surimono designer Totoya Hokkei. Some scholars have also written that he trained with Hokusai.1 In 1815 he wrote and illustrated his first book of

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fiction Modorikago mata no aigata (The returning palanquin: meeting again). The following year, he contributed kyōka and illustrations to Kyōka mutamagawa (Kyōka–style six jewel rivers). Since Hokkei also was an illustrator of this book, it has been suggested that Gakutei may have been working in Hokkei’s studio at this time.

Writing in his diary, the author Takizawa Bakin stated that Gakutei moved to Osaka in the third month of 1827 where he lived intermittently into the Tenpō era. He continued to contribute illustrations to books until 1852. Gakutei was also the author of many kyōka poems usually under the name Shinkadō Sadaoka. Although Gakutei designed very few landscape prints, he had, in fact, prior to his Mt Tenpō series, published a manual of landscape design. In 1820, Gakutei, also known as Ichirō, created illustrations for a kyōka anthology, Sansui ikan kyōka shū (A Collection of kyōka and unusual landscapes). The first volume was republished in 1823 as Ichirō gafu (An album of pictures by Ichirō). It is a manual for the design of landscapes that describes a telescopic approach to composition rendering the same scene from close–up and from a distance as well as from different angles. He also advised the blending of Japanese and Chinese styles. It is impossible to know how much this manual may have influenced other artists, but some speculate that it may have influenced Hiroshige in his Hōeidō Tōkaidō.2 Aspects of the manual’s design techniques can be seen in Gakutei’s Fine views of Tenpōzan. For example, there is a telescopic approach to composition with prints depicting views from close–up and from a distance. However, no blending of Chinese and Japanese styles is overtly evident.

Of course, Gakutei’s design techniques were also influenced by landscapes of contemporary artists such as Hokusai and Hiroshige. It appears likely that Hokusai, in particular, had a profound impact on Gakutei.

Fugaku sanjūrokkei (Thirty–six views of Mount

Fuji) c. 1830–32 by Hokusai marked the beginning of the popularity of 19th century landscape prints. Hokusai’s choice of Mount Fuji as the subject of this landscape series was undoubtedly tied to Fuji’s status as the tallest and most sacred mountain in Japan. Fuji was the foundation for the popular Edo religion Fujiko (worship of Mount Fuji), and it was believed by many to be the source of immortality. Hokusai, about age 70 at this time, appeared to be increasingly concerned about his own mortality. After completing Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji, Hokusai went on to produce a three–volume book on Fuji, One hundred views of Mount Fuji 1834–c. 1847.

According to Henry Smith, this work went even further in celebrating the sacred nature of Fuji and in focusing on immortality.3 In 1831, an advertisement by the publisher Nishimuraya appeared for Hokusai’s famous series of Japanese prints on Fuji. It read: “Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji, by old man Itsu, the former Hokusai (single prints, indigo). These prints show Mount Fuji as it appears from the Seven– League Coast, from Tsukuda Island, and from many other places. The pictures are all different, and they, therefore, serve as a convenient guide for those who are studying the art of landscape.”4 Hokusai’s landscapes were revolutionary in their successful combination of traditional Japanese and Western aesthetics melded into a new ukiyo–e landscape style. Western design concepts are visible in the depiction of clouds, perspective, shading and shadows.

Nevertheless, representations of vegetation and hills in a more traditional Japanese style continue to be employed along with the ubiquitous, classic device of layers of mist across the pictorial plane. Even though the landscapes usually do not appear to be faithful renderings of the sites, many of the

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compositions have become iconic images of ukiyo–e landscape designs. As noted in the advertisement for the series, Hokusai and Nishimuraya wrote that the prints could be used as a guide to composing landscapes.

Whether this viewpoint was Hokusai’s or just the publisher’s conceit is unknown. Not surprisingly, Gakutei, as a reputed student of Hokusai, incorporated many of Hokusai’s design techniques into his series on Mount Tenpō. There is a similar blending of Western and traditional Japanese styles.

Hokusai’s Thirty–Six Views of Mount Fuji was rapidly followed by Hiroshige’s series Tōkaidō gojūsan–tsugi no uchi (Fifty–three stations of the Tōkaidō, known as the Hōeidō Tōkaidō) 1833–34 which principally depicted the rest areas and post stations along the major road in Japan connecting Kyoto to Edo. Hiroshige’s series can also be viewed in the broad context of meisho despite the absence of meisho in the title. In 1831–1832 Hiroshige might have accompanied an annual entourage of officials which traversed the Tōkaidō bringing a gift of horses from the shogunate to the imperial court.5 Reportedly, along the way, Hiroshige

2a.

Front cover.

2b.

Back cover.

made sketches at each station. In the foreword to Hiroshige’s Hōeidō Tōkaidō, the poet Yomono Takimizu wrote: “While traveling, the painter Hiroshige stopped over in many places and copied down everything he saw–mountains and ocean, fields and rivers, grasses and trees, and travelers on the road – without missing a thing. His paintings give one the impression that the scenes are spread before one’s own eyes and the feeling that one has been to these places in person.”6 Kobayashi Tadashi stated in Masterpieces of landscape that in the 1850s, Hiroshige (or perhaps his publisher) wrote about a mode of realistic depiction of landscapes based on

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2a and b, 3a and b from Yashima Gakutei. Naniwa meisho Tenpōzan shōkei (A famous place in Osaka, Fine views of Tenpōzan at a glance), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum, FSC–GR–780.186. Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection–Charles Lang Freer Endowment, Friends of the Freer and Sackler Galleries and the Harold P Stern Memorial Fund in appreciation of Jeffery P. Cunard, and his exemplary service to the Galleries as the Chair of the Board of Trustees (2003–2007).

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what he called a ‘true reflection’ of the scene.

Since Hiroshige’s series purported to be a depiction of specific sites, enhanced sense of realism was essential to his design. However, it is unlikely that all his pictures were based on his direct observation of the sites or that they were all accurate portrayals of the locations.

Yet in many cases, even if the prints were not true to the characteristics of the site Hiroshige was illustrating, the images still are geographically detailed and appear to be specific to some site. As will be discussed subsequently, despite the widespread influence of Hiroshige’s landscapes, Gakutei was closer stylistically to Hokusai than Hiroshige and may have even used some of Hokusai’s prints as inspiration for his designs.

Gakutei’s Fine Views of Mount Tenpō At first glance, Gakutei’s choice of Mount Tenpō for the subject of a mountain print series seems to be a parody of Hokusai’s Thirty–six views. Mount Fuji is over 12,000 feet tall and had for centuries been considered sacred. In contrast, Mount Tenpō was a manmade hill and only 18 metres high. In all respects, despite the name, Mount Tenpō was not a true mountain. Osaka in the early nineteenth century was the largest port in Japan and was located inland on the Aji River.

Due to the build–up of silt, negotiating the river became difficult. In 1831 the river was dredged, and the silt was deposited at the mouth of the river and the new hill was named

3a.

Preface.

3b.

End Page.

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4.

Yashima Gakutei. Osaka Ajigawa niiyama fūkei (View of the Aji River and the New Mountain in Osaka), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum FSC–GR–780.186.

Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection.

Mount Tenpō after the Tenpō Era (1830–1844) in which the construction was started. Pine trees and cherry trees were planted, and a lighthouse was built on the hill. Sailors used the hill and lighthouse as navigation guides and called Mount Tenpō ‘Mejurushi–yama (‘landmark mountain’). The hill was turned into a park with tea houses, restaurants and other entertainment. It quickly became a popular tourist destination, especially during cherry blossom viewing season. Gakutei and other artists then celebrated Mount Tenpō’s new status through their prints. In 1835, the illustrated gazetteer Tenpōzan meisho zue (A guide to famous places on Mount Tenpō) was published in Osaka.7 Gakutei’s continued interest in Mount Tenpō, led him to edit an anthology of haiku on Mount Tenpō, Tenpōzan haikai kushu in 1837.8 Initially, Gakutei’s Fine views of Mount Tenpō were likely planned as a set of eight under an unknown publisher. Akifumi Nakade in his book Watakushi no kamigata monogatari: nishiki–e hen (The story of Osaka prints from my

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collection) included an image of the first print in the series which is entitled Osaka Ajigawa niiyama hakkei (Eight views of the New Mountain Ajigawa). This version is also present in the British Museum.9 No other print in the series is known to have an edition with hakkei in the title. Presumably, before the set could be completed, the woodblocks were sold to the publisher Kyōbundō and the colophons were partially recut with ‘niiyama hakkei’ changed to ‘niiyama fūkei’. Currently, only six views of the set are known. At least two of the other prints in the set also have two editions– figs. 6a and 7a. One version of each has the word niiyama (New Mountain) in the title and the other substitutes Tenpōzan for niiyama. It is probable that the prints with niiyama are the earlier edition and were replaced by Tenpōzan in the second edition as the ‘New Mountain’ became known as Tenpōzan. Very possibly, all six of the prints have two editions.

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5a.

Yashima Gakutei. Osaka Tenpōzan yudachi no kei (View of an afternoon downpour at Mount Tenpō in Osaka), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum FSC–GR–780.186.

Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection.

Fine views of Mount Tenpō at a glance was published with floral covers of cherry blossoms (figs. 2a and b) and a blue preface and end page (figs. 3a and b). The front cover had, as usual, a printed title slip, or daisen that sometimes is missing from certain surviving impressions (fig. 2a). A copy of the complete album is in the Pulverer Collection at the Smithsonian.10 Because it was designed as a folded book, all the prints have a vertical centrefold. The preface was written by Gakutei under the name Shinkadō. It is interesting to note that consistent with the long tradition of issuing the same book or album in more than one city (such as Edo, Kyoto, Osaka, or Nagoya), Gakutei’s album was published as a combined effort by Kyōbundō (Shioya Kisuke) in Osaka and Eijudō (Nishimuraya Yohachi) in Edo. This would also suggest that Mount Tenpō was of potential interest to print/book buyers in Edo in addition to Osaka.

Nishimuraya is, of course, the same publisher who was responsible for Hokusai’s Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji.

5b.

Katsushika Hokusai.

Kanagawa oki nami ora (‘In the hollow of a wave off Kanagawa’ often called simply ‘The Great Wave’ from the series Fugaku sanjūrokkei (Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji), c.

1830–32.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. JP1847. H.O. Havemeyer Collection, Bequest of Mrs. H.O. Havemeyer,1929.

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The first image in the series entitled Osaka Ajigawa niiyama fūkei (Views of the Aji River and the New Mountain in Osaka) (fig. 4) is the most panoramic and in this respect is not that different from compositions in Settsu meisho zue. Niiyama (New Mountain) refers to the hill which was created by dredging the Aji. The park with the three hills of Tenpōzan is viewed towards the mouth of the Aji River.

There is an approaching sailboat with other boats at anchor. Visitors can be seen walking along trails in the park. In the distance on the left, the castle of Osaka is visible, and on the right, the five–story pagoda of Shitennōji is depicted. Traditional Japanese design techniques are seen in the representation of mist (kumogata or ‘cloud forms’) and Western techniques are seen in the representation of perspective. Kumogata appear in all six prints of the series, although here it is used more prominently, particularly as an important design element in the middle of the composition. As previously stated, this print is known in two editions. The earlier is Osaka Ajigawa niiyama hakkei (Eight views of the Aji River and the New Mountain in Osaka). There are two impressions of this edition at the British Museum (objects # 1907,1018,0.242 and 1952,1011,0.23). Some variation between them exists, most notably in the depiction of the sky. The second edition is entitled Osaka Ajigawa niiyama fūkei (View of the Aji River and the New Mountain in Osaka) (fig. 4).

The next print, Osaka Tenpōzan yudachi no kei (View of an afternoon downpour at Mount Tenpō in Osaka) (fig. 5a) is the most dramatic of the series. We see the stern of a sailboat moving through a violent sea with threatening black clouds above and sheets of rain. The name of the ship is Daitō–maru, ‘Big wealth winner’, which could be interpreted as good fortune with respect to surviving the storm.11 The hills of Tenpōzan can be seen beyond the ship. A stone bridge is visible on the right and, as we shall see, it is depicted in subsequent

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prints in the series. This print may be easily viewed as similar to Hokusai’s iconic ‘Great Wave’ (fig. 5b) in its dramatic intensity with Mount Tenpō instead of Mount Fuji flanked by massive waves. Both are certainly imagined scenes.

The third in the series, Osaka Ajigawa niiyama amayadori (Sheltering from the rain at the Aji River and Niiyama in Osaka) (fig. 6a) shows a pavilion on Mount Tenpō overlooking the bay. In the distance, a lighthouse appears.

People are seen in the middle distance just beyond some kumogata or mist while walking along the shore with sailboats in the bay.

Numerous tourists are depicted climbing through thick pillars which is a tradition thought to bring good luck or to heal the disabled. A common superstition existed that any person suffering from disease would be cured if they inhaled the medicinal fragrance of fresh wood.12 This belief is known from the Great Buddha Hall of the Temple of Todaiji in Nara and it is also portrayed in Jippensha Ikku’s comic novel Shank’s Mare.13 The size of the hole that tourists climb through is said to be equal to the size of a nostril of the Great Buddha in Nara. The comparison of this print with Hokusai’s print of Sazai Hall from his Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji (fig. 6b) is provocative. Both prints are similar in having a view of a hall overlooking a bay portrayed with Western perspective techniques. Yet, Hokusai’s print depicts pilgrims at Sazai Hall from the Temple of Five Hundred Arhats which commemorates elders of Zen Buddhism who had attained Nirvana. Instead of the almost comic sight of tourists climbing through pillars in Gakutei’s print, the people in Hokusai’s print are all intently gazing at Mount Fuji, apparently in awe of the beauty and sacred nature of Fuji. Gakutei’s print is known in two editions. The early edition (fig. 6a) calls the mountain niiyama. In the later edition in the Smithsonian, the mountain now bears the name Tenpōzan. There are significant

6a.

Yashima Gakutei. Osaka Ajigawa niiyama amayadori (Sheltering from the rain at the Aji River and New Mountain in Osaka), c. 1834.

Collection of Honolulu Museum of Art, Gift of James A. Michener, 1991, (22047).

6b.

Katsushika Hokusai.

Gohyaku rakanji Sazaidō (Sazai hall at the temple of five hundred arhats), from the series Fugaku sanjūrokkei (Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji), c. 1830–32.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. JP2984. Henry L. Phillips Collection, Bequest of Henry L. Phillips, 1939.

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7b.

Katsushika Hokusai, Fukagawa Mannenbashi shita (Under the Mannen Bridge at Fukagawa), from the series Fukaku sanjūrokkei (Thirty– six views of Mount Fuji), c.

1830–32.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, JP 1332. Rogers Fund, 1922.

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7a.

Yashima Gakutei. Osaka Ajigawa Tenpōzan ishibashi (The stone bridge at the Aji River and Tenpōzan in Osaka), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum FSC–GR–780.186.

Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection.

differences in the depiction of the sky between the editions.

Fourth in the series is the print Osaka Ajigawa Tenpōzan ishibashi (The stone bridge at the Aji River and Tenpōzan in Osaka) (fig. 7a).

The bridge is seen from the Aji River looking out into the bay. This view of the bridge is from a greater distance than that of the final sixth print which represents Suehiro Bridge.

Many people are seen crossing over the bridge and along the path on the right strolling down from Tenpōzan. The scene is of a tourist boat being poled under the bridge and with many other boats in the bay. While the bridge, waves and landscape are depicted in a realistic Western style, a classical–style Japanese kumogata flows along the bottom of the print.

In many respects, this print design appears similar in composition to Hokusai’s Under the Mannenbashi at Fukagawa from his Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji (fig. 7b) with boats being poled under a visually comparable bridge.

Gakutei’s print is known in two editions. The earlier is Osaka Ajigawa niiyama Ishibashi (Stone bridge at the Aji River and the New Mountain in

Osaka) which is present at the Harvard Art Museum (1933.4.2576). The second edition substitutes Tenpōzan for niiyama (fig. 7a).

There are changes predominantly in the depiction of the sky.

Tenpōzan mansen nyūshin no zu (Ships entering Tenpōzan harbour) (fig. 8), the fifth design in the series, is one of the most visually compelling prints. Blue clouds are seen with pink rays of sunlight streaming down over a fleet of ships returning to the Aji River with Mount Tenpō on the left of the image. Clouds, waves and the perspectival sizing of the ships is in Western design technique, but there is again a layer of classic style kumogata along the lower border. The name of the publisher is seen on the sails. This technique of working an advertisement into the design is seen occasionally in ukiyo–e.14 Although it is conceivable that the hills of Tenpōzan on the left of the scene may be based on an actual view of Tenpōzan, most of the design is similar stylistically to Hokusai’s work presenting an interesting, dramatic composition rather than a precise depiction of the location.

8.

Yashima Gakutei. Tenpōzan mansen nyūshin no zu (Ships entering Tenpōzan harbour), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum FSC–GR–780.186.

Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection.

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9.

Yashima Gakutei. Tenpōzan Suehirobashi getsuyo no zu (A view of a moonlight night, Suehiro Bridge, Tenpōzan Park), c. 1834.

Freer Gallery of Art, Smithsonian Museum FSC–GR–780.186.

Purchase, The Gerhard Pulverer Collection.

The final print is Tenpōzan Suehirobashi getsuyo no zu (A view of a moonlight night, Suehiro Bridge, Tenpōzan Park) (fig. 9). Tourists are seen in a pleasure boat, out for a full– moon viewing, being poled under the bridge at the Northern end of Tenpōzan Park presumably into the Aji River. A person is also seen on the bridge staring out at the moon.

This print may well be the reverse view of the fourth print which looks out into the bay from the river. Western design techniques are seen again combined with classical style kumogata along the lower border. The design is one of the most appealing of the series, but again it seems fanciful rather than based on a true–to– life view. In many respects, this print, in design, could be by Hokusai. The depiction of vegetation and the dramatic, engaging design are all similar to Hokusai’s style

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Conclusion In summary, Gakutei’s Fine views of Mount Tenpō is a compelling depiction and celebration of what was, at the time, Osaka’s newest tourist attraction. Like Hokusai’s Fuji prints, the designs are a blending of Western and classical Japanese techniques into an ukiyo–e landscape style which is more realistic than earlier monochromatic travel guides despite the persistence of classic mist (kumogata) flowing in all the prints. However, unlike Hokusai’s series which focuses on a spectacular sacred mountain, Gakutei’s landscape series depicts a small man–made hill that had recently become a park–like destination for Osaka’s growing merchant class. One can see the design techniques described in Gakutei’s Ichirō gafu. There are views from close–up and from a distance as

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well as views of bridges and bays from both sides. Compared with 18th century meisho, the greater realism displayed in the prints is apparent and important since they are, in essence, souvenirs for a new tourist destination. Many of the scenes were likely not views that Gakutei had actually witnessed, for example, a dramatic storm in one print and a spectacular view of sun–light streaming through clouds with a fleet returning to the harbour in another. Parts of the landscape in the distance may be based on sketches he might have made, but the rest of the composition was probably imagined. Yet, it also seems likely that tourists visiting the park paraded across bridges, had full moon– viewing boat tours and may have climbed through pillars so the prints with these scenes would bring back memories of visits. Gakutei, an Edo artist who spent considerable time in Osaka, brought to Kamigata an approach to landscape art that would not take hold until the late 1850s when artists such as Hasegawa Sadanobu produced landscape series

AddendumOther Contemporaneous Prints of Mount Tenpō Gakutei was not the only artist to design prints of Mount Tenpō. Several other artists celebrated Mount Tenpō in the 1830s,

including Utagawa Sadamasu (fig. 10), Utagawa Kunisada (fig. 11), Hokusai (fig. 12), Hiroshige (fig. 13) and Shūnkosai Hokuei (Women visiting Tenpōzan, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 11.35309–11). Much later prints were created by other artists including Utagawa Hiroshige II in 1859 and Kawanabe Kyōsai in c. 1863. However, as previously mentioned, unlike Gakutei’s Fine views of Mount Tenpō, these prints were published as single sheets rather than designs within sets. The print from the landscape series Honcho meisho from c.

1837 by Hiroshige is especially noteworthy. It portrays the landscape with a greater realism than the prints by Sadamasu, Kunisada, Hokuei and Hokusai.

Sadamasu’s panoramic tetraptych Naniwa Tenpōzan Fūkei (View of Mount Tenpō) c.

1834 (fig. 10) shows the hills of Mount Tenpō with the bay in the distance. Visitors are seen throughout, on boats, in restaurants, wandering the streets and on trails through the hills. Many of the activities are probably reminiscent of the park–like setting of Tenpōzan, but the crowded juxtaposition of boats, buildings and tourists seems arbitrary and stylised rather than realistic.

John Fiorillo has written that Kunisada’s triptych Tenpōzan han’ei no zu (On an outing to Tenpōzan) (fig. 11) is a mitate of kabuki actors in which Edo actors who were on tour performing in Osaka are seen strolling on the grounds of

10.

Utagawa Sadamasu.

Naniwa Tenpōzan Fūkei (View of Mount Tenpō), c. 1834 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. 2011.136a–d. Purchase Friends of Asian Art Gifts, in honor of C. Y. Watt, 2011.

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11.

Utagawa Kunisada. Naniwa Tenpōzan han’ei no zu (On an outing to Tenpōzan), c. 1834.

Collection of John Fiorillo.

12.

Katsushika Hokusai. Sesshu ajikawaguchi Tenpōzan (Tenpōzan at the mouth of the Aji River in Settsu Province), from the series Shokoku meikyo kiran (Remarkable views of bridges in various provinces), c. 1834–35.

Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York JP1457. Rogers Fund, 1923

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Tenpōzan.15 This triptych is compositionally very similar to Hokuei’s, but in this case with actual actors placed in front of a landscape. It is noteworthy that one of the actors depicted is the Edo superstar Ichikawa Danjūrō VII who acted under the name Hakuen II during his visit to Osaka from 1829–1830. He also performed in Osaka between 3/1834–5/1834.

Of course, Tenpōzan was not constructed until after Danjūrō’s first visit. As Fiorillo has suggested, it may be that this triptych portrays Danjūrō’s visit to Tenpōzan in 1834, and Kunisada mistakenly referred to him as Hakuen II which was his stage name only during the earlier visit 1829–1830. Notably, the other two actors, Iwai Shijaku I and Nakamura Shikan II, depicted in the triptych were also present in Osaka during 1834, and all three were there during the third through fifth lunar months. Whether the three superstars actually travelled together on an outing to Tenpōzan is unknown. Similar to the triptych by Hokuei, the bay beyond is depicted with ships in the distance. However, in this case, the prints were probably souvenirs for kabuki patrons rather than for visitors to the location itself.

Hokusai’s print (fig. 12), published by Nishimuraya, is a bird’s eye view of the entire Mount Tenpō area seen from a distance showing boats in front of the coastline with

two bridges barely visible. It seems odd that this print with such inconspicuous bridges would be included in his series on bridges. A notation on the upper right side which states that this print was done on request, after a drawing in Osaka. In other words, Hokusai did not create it from his own observations.16 The drawing that the print is based on is unknown.

Of course, there were undoubtedly many similar examples of Hokusai’s prints which were based on other prints or paintings rather than on direct observation. The print is designed much more in traditional Japanese style and is less realistic than the landscapes of Gakutei or even Hokusai’s landmark series Thirty–six views of Mount Fuji. For example, a lack of perspective is evident with trees drawn in the same relative size whether they are close–up or in the distance. Instead, the panoramic style is similar to most of the images in Miyako meisho zue from fifty years earlier. In addition to this print by Hokusai, a surimono depicting Mount Tenpō exists which is attributed to Hokusai, Cherry blossoms at Tenpōzan at Harvard University (1933.4.2656).

Hiroshige designed a print depicting Mount Tenpō, c. 1837 that was included in his series Honchō meisho (fig.13). Boats are depicted, presumably carrying tourists, sailing in front of the harbour. The distinctive

13.

Utagawa Hiroshige. Osaka Tenpōzan (Tenpōzan in Osaka), from the series Honcho meisho (Famous places of our country), c. 1837.

Collection Honolulu Museum of Art, Gift of James A. Michener, 1991, (22377).

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lighthouse of Mount Tenpō is prominently visible. Like many of Hiroshige’s prints, the design technique is realistic. The ships and the waves are depicted in a Western technique and there is a row of houses before Mount Tenpō that also seem proportionate and authentic. The lighthouse, in particular, seems to be based on an actual structure. In many respects, this print appears to be a ‘true reflection’ of Mount Tenpō, although it is impossible to say with certainty how accurate the representation actually is without a contemporary photograph of the area for comparison. In 1859 when Utagawa Hiroshige II produced a print of Mount Tenpō, he also focused on the lighthouse but made it even more prominent (see Museum of Fine Arts, Boston: https://collections.mfa.org/ objects/207505).

NOTES The author would like to thank the editors of Andon for their generous support in sharing their expertise to improve this article. In particular, the author is indebted to John Fiorillo, who critiqued early versions and provided excellent advice. A debt of gratitude is also owed to Scott Quarrier for invaluable technical support.

1. van Rappard–Boon, C., Surimono – poetry and image in Japanese prints. Hotei Publishing, Leiden & Amsterdam 2000, p. 31.

2. A possible source for Hiroshige’s compositional technique: Newland, A. R. (ed.), Essays in honour of Robert Schaap: graphic designer, collector, curator and scholar of Japanese art.

Heinz M. Kaempfer Fund, Society for Japanese Arts, The Hague 2013, pp. 22–30.

3. Smith H. D., Hokusai: one hundred views of Mt Fuji, George Braziller, New York 1988, pp. 7–22.

4. Hokusai Katsushika, Kondō Ichitarō, Terry, Ch. S., The thirty–six views of Mount Fuji.

East–West, Center Press, Honolulu 1966.

5. There is no mention of such a journey in the Andō family documents or Iiyama’s Meiji period manuscript of his biography of Hiroshige. The 1941 published biography introduces this story, attributing the source to Hiroshige III. It is possible that Hiroshige traveled part of the Tokaidō.

6. Kobayashi Tadashi, ’The allure of ukiyo–e landscape prints’, in: Masterpieces of landscape: ukiyo–e prints from the Honolulu Academy of Arts, Kokusai Art, Tokyo 2003, pp. 24–5.

7. print | British Museum. Accessed May 12, 2020. https://www.britishmuseum.org/ collection/object/A_1907–1018–0–243.

8. print | British Museum. Accessed May 12, 2020. https://www.britishmuseum.org/ collection/object/A_1931–0427–0–10.

9. Nakade Akifumi, Watakushi no kamigata monogatari: nishiki–e hen (The story of Osaka prints from my collection), Nakao Shōsendō, Osaka 2005. Thanks to Peter Ujlaki for bringing this print to my attention. The hakkei version is also present in the British Museum and the Edo Tokyo Museum.

10. Tenpōzan shōkei ichiran | F|S Pulverer Collection. Accessed May 12, 2020. https:// pulverer.si.edu/node/759/title/1.

11. Shower at Tempōzan. – stylefesta. Accessed May 12, 2020. https://adachi–hanga.com/ ukiyo–e–en/items/gakutei001/.

12. Tenpōzan shōkei ichiran | F|S Pulverer Collection. Accessed May 12, 2020. https:// pulverer.si.edu/node/759/title/other.

13. Gakutei | Minneapolis Institute of Art. Accessed May 12, 2020. https://collections. artsmia.org/.

14. Calza, G. C., Ukiyo–e. Phaidon Press, London & New York 2005.

15. Fiorillo, J., Utagawa Kunisada I (歌川國貞) Toyokuni III (豊國) –– OsakaPrints.com –– Japanese Ukiyo–e Woodblock Prints and Paintings. Accessed October 12, 2020. https:// www.osakaprints.com/content/artists/info_pp/kunisada_info/kunisada_06.htm.

16. Ukipedia. Accessed May 15, 2020. http://www.ukipedia.de/188.php.

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From Local to National

Crafting the Identity of bashōfu in Japanese Okinawa Francesco Montuori 1.

Robe, 1900-1920, maker unknown, Ryūkyū Islands (Ishigaki).

Collectie Stichting Nationaal Museum van Wereldculturen.

Coll.nr. RV-4151-149.

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Introduction The Ryūkyū archipelago, in southern Japan, is home to some old techniques in craft textiles, among them Kijōka–bashōfu, which are not found elsewhere in mainland Japan.1 Bashōfu (bashō cloth) is the term commonly used to refer to garments made with the hand–spun fibre from ito–bashō (banana plant). In the past, garments made with bashōfu, crafted from the Japanese fibre banana (binomial nomenclature: musa basjoo – Japanese ito– bashō), were mainly the prerogative of the Ryūkyūan upper classes although it is known that, in its coarser varieties, bashōfu was worn by the lower classes as well. The proliferation of bashōfu garments is, without a doubt, to be attributed to the capacity of bashōfu not to stick to the wearer’s skin, which is an advantage living with the humid weather of the region. However, the social status and the identity associated with bashōfu, which I analyse here, have changed remarkably over the last two centuries. I will first provide an overview of the history of the archipelago since the two histories are deeply intertwined.

The Kingdom of Ryūkyū (its administrative status) was annexed to Japan in 1879 after centuries of relative independence (it used to be a de facto vassal of the Satsuma han since 1609, but it also held strong commercial and political connections with China, to which it was a tributary state). After its annexation, the Japanese governments of the first half of the 20th century made several efforts aiming at reshaping local identity and culture, intending to increase the governability of the region and ‘Japanise’ the archipelago.2 The Ryūkyū archipelago was bombed during World War II, whereby ito–bashō plantations, which were already on a severe decline, were almost completely wiped out. However, the production of bashōfu and traditional weaving techniques on the

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archipelago were revitalised thanks to the intervention of the philosopher and critic Yanagi Sōetsu (1889–1961), the founder of the mingei movement. He and his group of followers had already prompted several initiatives to improve public recognition of Ryūkyūan culture before the war, and these initiatives would later receive the invaluable support of Taira Toshiko (born 1921), a weaver who founded a bashōfu workshop after World War II.3 The impact of such initiatives proved remarkable, and bashōfu garments have become a desired good in mainland Japan.

Their value and public recognition have risen considerably, especially since Taira Toshiko was recognised as a ‘Living National Treasure’ (ningen kokuhō) in 2000, and bashōfu textiles are now considered an important cultural product by national institutions.

The paper aims to assess the changes bashōfu textiles have undergone since the Japanese annexation in the Meiji era until today. I will look at the way bashōfu textiles have been described and repackaged by different agents. In doing so, I assess the changing image of the Ryūkyū archipelago together with its famous product (meibutsu), bashōfu textiles, how the image has been shaped for both a local and an international audience through the processes of heritagisation.4

The historical background After the Meiji Restoration (1868), the Japanese government pursued a more aggressive foreign policy than before, with the foremost goal of competing with Western nations. This resulted, among other things, in overtly hostile and imperialist policies against other countries that would culminate in the annexation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom (1879) and the later occupation of Korea (1905), as well as other events such as the First Sino–Japanese War (1894–1895) and the

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2.

Kasuri fragment from an early 20th century kimono using the e-gasuri technique to create a picture of plovers. This is also an iro gasuri in that it uses several colours.

Chris Hazzard. Wikimedia Commons. https://nl.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Bestand:E-Gasuri.,_Picture_Kasuri.

JPG

Russo–Japanese War (1904–1905). The official annexation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom started abruptly in 1872 with the Miyako Accident,5 which led to a long–lasting dispute between Japan and China regarding the hegemony over the archipelago. Meanwhile, however, the Ryūkyū Kingdom hoped to maintain the status quo ante the Miyako Accident, with Japan and China playing the role of parent countries, both deserving the respect of the small kingdom.6 In 1879, the last King, Shō Tai (r.

1843–1879) would eventually grant legitimate authority over the archipelago to the Emperor, validating the annexation of the kingdom by the Japanese Empire.

The period from 1879 to 1896 is commonly known as the Ryūkyū shobun.7 Following the annexation, a long and thorough process of assimilation of the archipelago had begun, involving both the cultural and the administrative spheres of the territory.8 Nevertheless, the Japanese government allowed all Ryūkyūan bureaucrats to remain in office and high–ranking officials and aristocrats were permitted to pursue their habitual lifestyle. However, the loss of independence affected the lower classes, composed of those belonging to neither the local aristocracy nor the bureaucracy.

They were hit the hardest by the new central government’s reduction in welfare expenditure. One of the most intrusive policies carried out by the Japanese government during this period was the establishment of a multitude of schools staffed with mainland Japanese teachers, allowing the new hegemonic power to influence the minds of the future generations with a different set of cultural values, with the goal of homogenising the archipelago with the rest of the country The process of annexation, originally begun as a political action, brought with it deep implications for Ryūkyūan local culture, which was to be suppressed and replaced with that of mainland Japan. For example,

this process overtly discouraged the wearing of Ryūkyūan–style clothing or speaking the local dialect, in favour of more ‘mainland’ customs.

This also affected the local production of textiles made for domestic use. 9 Nevertheless, Japan also left the region with the right to maintain its original administrative structure and its old customs and traditions, probably in order to limit widespread dissatisfaction among the population. This policy, called Kyūkan onzon (lit., “preserving old traditions”) would last until 1903 when the Okinawa Prefecture Land Reorganisation Project abolished all old customs and pushed forward the process of cultural assimilation of the archipelago within Japan. The old customs and traditions, however, had already started to vanish during the 1890s, with the rise of a modern middle class of Okinawans who favoured mainland values over those of the archipelago.10 The Japanese government’s policy of samuraisation failed to bridge the gap between the archipelago and the mainland or ease the frictions that still endure.11 These failed policies aimed at homogenising Japan under common values such as obedience to the emperor, a common language, and specific cultural features,12 namely Shintoism, Buddhism and bushidō, whilst Daoism was the prevalent belief system in the archipelago.13 These underlying reasons would play a key role in influencing the successive developments in the local culture of the Ryūkyū and the place it would end up holding within the national discourse on culture, especially during the 20th century.

Later events would partly counter the government’s initiatives and take a significant part in the rediscovery and appreciation of Ryūkyūan culture in mainland Japan during the 1920s and 1930s. One in particular, that would prove meaningful in later years, was the first visit to the Ryūkyū archipelago by Yanagi Sōetsu, the founder of the mingei movement.

This would lead to a remarkable change in Ryūkyūan culture and its products.

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A closer look at Ryūkyūan bashōfu textiles As mentioned in the introduction, bashōfu textiles are characterised by their fibre, which is hand–spun from the leaves of the Japanese fibre banana tree (Musa basjoo), a plant cultivated in the Ryūkyū archipelago but also found in Sichuan province, southern China. This weaving technique first arrived in the archipelago in the 14th century, probably from Southeast Asia.14 The stalks of the plants are torn into strips which are then boiled in caustic soda.15 Once dry, the fibre obtained is knotted and spliced in order to produce a thread that is coarse, stiff and variable in thickness, but when woven results in a very light and airy texture.16 Such process is of course very time consuming since each strip has to be hand–knotted to the others in order to craft the threads. In terms of weaving patterns, the most common is a simple plain weave, which maximises the ventilation of the garments.

The dye is usually applied directly onto the threads, rather than on the final garments.

However, the yarns are often left in their natural light brown colour (fig.1 shows an example of a bashōfu robe left in such colour), and when dyes are used, these are frequently limited to natural brown dyes.17 More expensive bashōfu garments, often reserved for the upper classes, are usually dyed with the kasuri technique (commonly known as ikat outside Japan). Whereas in regular techniques threads are usually dyed along their whole length, in the case of kasuri just certain segments are dyed, with the remaining parts left undyed. When the threads are subsequently woven, the dyed segments create the patterns and designs (fig. 2). Kasuri can be applied either on the warp or the weft threads or, in the case of the most precious garments, on both (double ikat, jp. tate–yoko gasuri).18 Textiles dyed with kasuri techniques

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are not only found in the Ryūkyū archipelago, nor is the employment of this technique limited to garments made of bashōfu, but it can also be used for silk and cotton. Kasuri is in fact to be found all over the Japanese archipelago, although mainland Japanese kasuri tends to be more pictorial than the Ryūkyūan designs, which are more geometric.19 Around six hundred different patterns, both geometric and nature–inspired have been found in Ryūkyūan kasuri garments, among which some might carry a symbolic meaning, such as star patterns.20 It is also worth mentioning that the most lavish varieties of kasuri textiles, among those made of bashōfu, were at least in the 19th century, subject to strict sumptuary laws, which limited the possibilities for commoners to wear kasuri or bingata (another local dyeing technique used for garments). Commoners’ desire to escape this rule has however given birth to garments upon which a stencil technique was employed to obtain a final product imitating kasuri textiles.21 Mainland garments differ from Ryūkyūan clothing in several aspects. The overall shape of a mainland Japanese robe and a Ryūkyūan robe, made of bashōfu or cotton, are similar.

However, there are some fundamental differences between the two: Ryūkyūan robes are characterised by longer collars, with sleeves that are entirely attached to the main body. Mainland Japanese robes are characterised by a different type of collar, called tomoeri, consisting of an additional length of fabric.22 The sleeves also differ, being only half–attached to the main piece of fabric, leaving a slit open under the wearer’s armpit.

These sartorial conventions start to change after the Japanese annexation of the archipelago and its homogenisation policies. Ryūkyūan garments adapted quickly to mainland styles. Local robes gradually lost their specific characteristics, adopting features such as the tomoeri collar and

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the half–attached sleeve.23 These changes appeared to have mainly affected the garments worn by the upper classes, possibly due to their awareness to the changing times and their wish to integrate with the mainland's customs. Yet, there are examples of robes crafted after the annexation which maintain the original features of Ryūkyūan dress, such as the fully attached sleeves, attesting to the continued coexistence of local and mainland traditions.24 th

st

Bashōfu in 20 and 21 century Japan Ryūkyūan culture was highly affected by the annexation of the archipelago to the rest of Japan. Although some traditions were initially maintained thanks to the kyūkan onzon policy, eventually local customs fell into disuse. This inevitably included the production of bashōfu textiles, whose steep decrease was also partly due to the import of cheaper, industrially made textiles from the mainland. Furthermore, the configuration of Ryūkyūan robes was altered by the contact with Japan, with local dress reshaped to look like those of mainland Japan.

In the end, the fate of Ryūkyūan clothing customs, and Ryūkyūan culture at large, would improve thanks to the intervention of the founder of the mingei movement, Yanagi Sōetsu, scion of a wealthy family based in Tōkyō (fig. 3). The mingei movement had already been active for quite a while when Yanagi paid his first visit to the Ryūkyū archipelago at the end of 1938. In the previous decades, he and his followers had already been working on Korean crafts and later on Japanese crafts. Their initiatives were mainly aimed at raising awareness of handmade crafts (including textiles) and the danger rapid industrialisation of Japan posed to their very existence. The mingei movement and affiliated groups had organised several exhibitions during the 1920s and 1930s intending to direct the Japanese people’s attention to the state

and importance of Japanese contemporary crafts. The main characteristics of handmade crafts that Yanagi praised were their accessibility to every social class, their better quality in contrast to industrial products and, finally, the anonymity of the craftsmen, which he considered as a central point for the appreciation of crafts. Yanagi’s his first visit to the archipelago, and his experience of its local crafts marked a turning point for the mingei movement.

From that time, the main direction of the movement was spurred on by its new interest in Ryūkyūan culture and local crafts.

The archipelago was described by Yanagi as a ‘handicraft paradise’, emphasising, in particular, their textiles. This was part of a wider picture Yanagi considered, focusing on the southernmost (the Ryūkyū archipelago) and the northernmost (Hokkaidō) regions of Japan, foreign territories until recently and now part of Japan. There, according to Yanagi, it was still possible to admire crafted objects considered ‘purely Japanese’ and thus central to the cultural discourse of the mingei movement.25

3.

Yanagi Sōetsu in 1950. https://upload.wikimedia.org/ wikipedia/commons/e/e5/Soetsu.

JPG

Yanagi and his peers then started involving Ryūkyūan culture in their initiatives to promote Japanese crafts. Bashōfu textiles were of course central to Yanagi’s discourse for three reasons: firstly, they were affordable by all social classes (apart from the most lavish ones or those in the bingata or kasuri technique that were initially reserved for the local aristocracy, as mentioned earlier).26 Secondly, the fabric was described

by Yanagi as honest, pure and simple, these being the characteristics kept in highest regard within the discourse of the mingei movement.27 Thirdly, the artisans crafting the pieces were still completely anonymous. Furthermore, due to the steep decline in bashōfu production after the annexation of the archipelago, Yanagi and his peers considered that its revival would be meaningful to the scope of the mingei movement.28

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4.

This image can be viewed in the printed version of this journal, or online at: https://collections.vam. ac.uk/item/O1375347/ kimono-taira-toshiko/ © Victoria and Albert Museum, London, Acc. no. FE.53:1–2017.

But the destruction of the Ryūkyūan natural environment following the bombings of World War II almost wiped out all fibre banana plantations on the archipelago, making the revival of the weaving techniques in its workshops even more difficult than it already was. However, a young woman called Taira Toshiko, who was born in Okinawa but had worked in a factory in Honshū during the war, was a central agent to the rebirth of this technique in the region. By chance, she was taken under the wing of the factory director, who introduced her to Tonomura Kichinosuke (1898–1993), a member of the mingei movement.

After she returned to her hometown Kijōka in 1947, she opened a workshop in 1963, and her activity with the mingei movement increased considerably. Devoting herself to the crafting of bashōfu, Taira attracted many followers who came from the mainland to learn the technique, and the tradition started to flourish once more.

She received further official recognition in 1971 when the government’s cultural agency started looking for local crafts to be appointed as ‘Important Intangible Cultural Treasures’. In 1974 the craft of bashōfu was added to the list, with Taira Toshiko as a representative keeping the technique alive. She finally reached her apotheosis in 2000, when she was declared a ‘Living National Treasure’. Bashōfu gained immensely from this exposure and remains one of the foremost traditions associated with Okinawan culture at a national level.

Yet, the work of Taira Toshiko and the mingei movement at large can also be criticised for having altered the nature of bashōfu textiles in two ways. Firstly, bashōfu textiles have lost those characteristics found praiseworthy by Yanagi at the end of the 1930s, since the artisans behind the crafted textiles are no longer anonymous. Nowadays, bashōfu textiles are almost exclusively associated with the name of Taira Toshiko. Furthermore, the affordability of bashōfu for the local population has now vanished, since these garments are extremely

expensive and are generally sold to mainland Japanese people rather than to Ryūkyūan locals. In the decades after World War II, the initiatives of the mingei movement, especially those regarding Korea, but also those related to the Ryūkyū archipelago, have been critically reviewed by several academics, both Japanese and foreign, and Yanagi’s theories have often been labelled as orientalist.29 In general, it has been observed that the way Yanagi conceived Ryūkyūan culture was highly essentialising, and prone to stereotypical frameworks, as for example is seen in his description of Ryūkyūan textiles as being ‘honest, pure and simple’.

Thus, mainland perspectives of Ryūkyūan culture such as Yanagi’s echoed the orientalist discourse of other colonial powers around the world. Secondly, Taira’s work has finalised the process of assimilation of Ryūkyūan weaving techniques into mainland fashion, which had begun after the annexation of 1879. This becomes all the more apparent when viewing the bashōfu robe, rightly named ‘kimono’, that she crafted especially for the Victoria and Albert Museum and which she donated to the museum in 2016 (fig.4). Notably, almost all the features that are typical of traditional Ryūkyūan robes are lost, such as the fully attached sleeves and the long collars. However, it retains a typical double kasuri pattern, possibly the so–called ‘five–stars’ (Jp. itsutsuboshi) and demonstrates a more or less conscious choice to create a garment in which Ryūkyūan and mainland Japan clothing traditions coexist, whilst highlighting how the previous has completely been absorbed by the latter.

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Conclusion

NOTES

Throughout this paper, I have tried to analyse and assess the evolution of bashōfu textiles following the Japanese annexation of the Ryūkyūan archipelago in 1879. I have highlighted in particular how some of the changes were caused by political decisions generally generated from ‘outside’ the archipelago, and how this affected Ryūkyūan society. For example, local clothing changed at the beginning of the 20th century, when the rising middle class favoured the fashion customs of mainland Japan. Secondly, I have also underlined how the processes of heritagisation may also affect, rather than just preserve, the selected goods. The way the production of bashōfu was revived after World War II, thanks to the contribution of the mingei movement and Taira Toshiko also deeply altered the position of bashōfu textiles in society in terms of identity and status, as I have argued. This transformation is also evident through the evolution of bashōfu garments from their traditional shapes into Japanese kimono.

In general, this can all be framed within an overall process of assimilation and absorption of Ryūkyūan culture within Japanese mainland culture, a transformation that involved every aspect of local customs, found in everyday life.

The author would like to thank the Heinz Kaempfer Fund for making possible the publication of fig. 4.

1

The group of islands stretching from Kyūshū, the southernmost island of mainland

Japan, to Taiwan, has been termed in several ways. The most common terms used are ‘Ryūkyū Archipelago’, ‘Southwestern Islands’, ‘Ryūkyū islands’ and ‘Ryūkyū Arc’. All these names express a slightly different nuance of meaning, according to the historical situation. However, if not otherwise specified, I employ the term ‘Ryūkyū archipelago’ to indicate all the islands from the northernmost to the southernmost part.

2 By employing the term ‘Japanise’, I mean that the main intent of Japanese governments during that period was to make Ryūkyūan culture more akin to mainland Japan’s, to homogenise the culture of the country.

3 The mingei movement was founded by a group of intellectuals who promoted the idea of preserving Japanese traditional folk arts, which were back then threatened by the industrialisation of the country. They aimed at protecting both the folk arts and their makers through their public promotion of mingei with events like exhibitions. They advocated the preservation of ordinary people’s crafts, like ceramics, woodwork, textiles and papermaking, made by unknown craftspeople with local materials and underlined the overall higher quality of these handmade crafts in contrast to the standardised, lower quality of industrially produced ones.

4 By heritagisation, I mean the transformative process through which a certain cultural practice is elevated from local to national heritage. This often happens through the awarding of recognitions to either the community of practitioners or to the practice itself.

5 In 1872 a mercantile ship travelling from the island of Miyako, in the southern part of the archipelago, had shipwrecked close to the littoral of Taiwan, and all the survivors were killed by natives of Taiwan. This event was quickly employed by Japan as casus belli to claim control over the whole Ryūkyū archipelago in direct contrast to China. See also: Smits, G., ‘The Ryūkyū shobun in East Asia and world history’, in: Ryūkyū in world history, (Kreiner, J., ed), Bier’sche Verlagsanstalt, Bonn 2001, pp. 287–88.

6 Smits, op. cit., p. 287.

7 Lit. the ‘dealing with the Ryūkyū’, where shobun is a term usually employed to mean some unpleasant household chore such as disposing garbage.

8 Loo, T.M., Heritage politics. Shuri Castle and Okinawa’s incorporation into modern Japan, 1879–2000, Lexington Books, Lanham 2014, p. 27.

9 Murray, Th. and V. Soenksen and A. Jackson, Textiles of Japan, Prestel, London 2019, p. 384.

10 Smits, op. cit., p. 294.

11 Kreiner, J., ‘Ryūkyūan history in comparative perspective’, in: Ryūkyū in world history (Kreiner, J., ed), Bier’sche Verlagsanstalt, Bonn 2001, p. 11.

12 Ibid., p. 13.

13 Ibid., p. 13.

14 Murray, Soenksen and Jackson, op. cit., p. 390.

15 Ibid., p. 390.

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16 Ibid., p. 390.

17 According to Murray, Soenksen and Jackson, the brown dye would be produced by using the bark of the Yeddo hawthorn (Rhapiolepsis umbellate). Other examples of polychrome bashōfu garments can be seen in Textiles of Japan, plates 136–137.

18 Due to their high value, double ikat bashōfu garments are also very rare. An example of such garments can be seen in Textiles of Japan, plate 139.

19 Murray, Soenksen and Jackson, op. cit., p. 398.

20 Murray, Soenksen and Jackson, op. cit., p. 386.

21 Ibid., p. 408. See for example the robe in Textiles of Japan, plate 142.

22 Murray, Soenksen and Jackson, op. cit., p. 402.

23 See for example the robe in Textiles of Japan, plate 139.

24 See for example the robe in Textiles of Japan, plate 138.

25 Kikuchi, Y., Japanese modernisation and mingei theory: cultural nationalism and oriental orientalism, Routledge Curzon, London 2004, p. 148–153.

26 Yanagi would particularly stress over the fact that bashōfu textiles were available to all social strata whereas other textiles such as silk yūki–tsumugi, crafted in mainland Japan were extremely elitist due to them being expensive.

27 Mayer Stinchecum, A., ‘Bashofū, the mingei movement, and the creation of a new Okinawa’, in: Material choices. Refashioning bast and leaf fibers in Asia and the Pacific (Hamilton, R. W., and L. Milgram, eds), Fowler Museum at UCLA, Los Angeles 2007), p. 107.

28 Brandt, K., Kingdom of beauty: mingei and the politics of folk art in imperial japan, Duke University Press, Durham 2007, p. 12.

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Publication

Published by Chatto & Windus (2020) Hardcover: 352 pages 14.9 x 14.9 x 23.1 cm ISBN: 978-1784742300

Stranger in the Shogun’s City: A Woman’s Life in Nineteenth Century Japan Amy Stanley

Amy Stanley’s Stranger in the Shogun’s City is a history of Japan. However, it is not quite like most of the historical accounts with which scholars, interested laypersons, and other potential readers might be familiar. For as long as historiography has existed, it has centred on the lives and feats of great individuals, mostly men, such as heroes and saints, kings and emperors, generals and scholars. Most of the history that we know today has been shaped by telling the grand narratives of these figures, how their words and actions have formed our societies. Often whole time periods are even named after them and their families: Carolingian, Ottoman, Victorian, Tokugawa. While the influence that certain individuals have had on our world cannot be ignored, this way of portraying history only tells part of the story.

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Stanley’s book is a refreshing and innovative departure from this trend. It ventures into the untold by putting the spotlights on the life of a migrant woman called Tsuneno, a priest’s daughter who after three failed and childless marriages traded her life in the snowy rural countryside of Echigo Province for one in Edo, the largest city in the world at that time. Stanley brings Tsuneno to life by using the many surviving letters she wrote to and received from her family and acquaintances as primary sources.

Her life covers the tumultuous first half of the 19th century, and Stanley provides us with an intriguing look into what it meant during these times to be a woman, to be a migrant, to be a commoner, to leave an old life behind and start anew and anonymous in a vast city of more than a million people. Compared to shoguns, magistrates, foreign commodores, and other famous people, Tsuneno’s life might have seemed ordinary. Although she came from a prosperous family of priests, which ensured she could read, write, and sew clothes, skills that would luckily give Tsuneno at least some advantage over other fresh arrivals in Edo, she was rather “untalented”.

Yet, she was her own unique person, perhaps even more so than most of her contemporaries because of her stubborn but determined attempts to break out of the patriarchal structure that was supposed to frame her life.

Furthermore, exactly by focusing on someone who would in other works have likely been reduced to a nameless statistic or a mere footnote, if her name would ever escape the archives at all, Stanley manages to create an image of Edo Japan that is more vivid than ever before.

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The theme of setting Tsuneno’s personal life against broader contexts and using one to elaborate on the other, and vice versa, returns consistently throughout the book.

Because Tsuneno’s life took place in various places in – and outside of Edo, the topics are rich in variety. The first few chapters contain detailed descriptions of life in the countryside, including haunting accounts of the Tenpō Famine, which hit the northern provinces particularly hard. After three divorces Tsuneno decides that she’s had enough of her constrained life in Japan’s so–called snow country and flees to Edo, against the wishes of her family and much to the dismay of her older brother and family head, Giyū.

Despite their quarrelling the two remained in contact, and their correspondences provide the bulk of primary sources. Before arriving in Edo, the reader is reminded of the dangers of being a woman in unfamiliar territories with strangers, when it is revealed that the trust Tsuneno put in her travel companion was misplaced. Her struggles do certainly not end upon arriving in Edo. But, determined to persevere, she ends up working as a servant for various households, doing the kind of work that, back in Echigo, would be done for her instead. Using Tsuneno’s life as a guideway Stanley introduces to us the many faces of Edo, the chaos and poverty of alley life, the superficial splendour and flamboyance of bustling commercial and theatre districts, and the rigidity of samurai households, including that of Tsuneno’s last employer, the fearsome magistrate Tōyama Saemon (1793–1855), one of the most powerful men in the city.

Stanley shows that, more often than not, the boundaries between social strata were blurry,

and that doctrine and practice did not easily coincide.

The book contains several overarching themes. Firstly, it provides valuable insights into the lives of women in the patriarchal society of early modern Japan. The comparison Stanley makes with Tsuneno’s fourth husband Hirosuke, who also came from Echigo to seek a better life in the city yet did not face the same hardships, is especially striking. Furthermore, by placing emphasis on Edo as a city of migrants, it sheds light on the culture of movement and migrant life in Edo Japan – their motives, methods, assimilation or lack thereof. It is not without reason that the city was drained of about half its population when the yearly attendances of provincial lords and samurai were no longer required. In her discussions of Tsuneno’s surroundings, Stanley also highlights global history. Even if Tsuneno herself “would not have cared”, international affairs influenced daily life, even in the supposedly isolated society of early modern Japan, whether it was the originally foreign fashion found in Tsuneno’s own wardrobe or the black ships shaking up the world in Canton and Edo alike. The most important theme, and main argument of the book, is stressing the importance of (migrant) women like Tsuneno in the course of history. If ‘Great Men’ have been the faces of kingdoms and empires, then the Tsunenos, the marginalised peoples of this world, have been the blood and organs that made them function. Stanley makes this especially clear in her juxtaposition of Tsuneno and the American Commodore Perry in the last chapter, in which she states that “Tsuneno’s legacy was the great city of Edo”. Without her

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and many like her, markets would have no visitors, theatres would have no audiences, magistrates would have no maidservants, and Commodore Perry would not have reached Japan if the African American sailors were not there to handle the rigging of his ships.

One of the strengths of this book is how Stanley combines her aptitude for storytelling, her knowledge as a historian, and her ability to imagine and empathise as a human being while maintaining a balance between scholarly distance and personal (or rather universal) identification. This is especially clear in the chapter on Tsuneno’s childhood in Ishigami Village in Echigo, for which there were, of course, not many primary sources as Tsuneno could not yet read and write.

Stanley not only draws on sources like the accounts of life in Echigo by Suzuki Bokushi (1770–1842), a wealthy textile merchant, landowner, and all–around member of the rural elite, but also on her own experience of raising toddlers to present a plausible picture of how in Tsuneno’s young eyes the world may have unravelled during her childhood. Surely some of the joys and sorrows of human life are universal.

IN CONCLUSION Many of the aspects of Tsuneno’s story in a time and place that appears to be so distant may feel quite relatable to present day’s readers. The dangers of being a woman on the road; defying the social expectations of one’s surroundings; quarrelling with family without ever completely severing ties; leaving a safe yet suffocating lifestyle in the countryside for one of strife, but also of promises of freedom and self–determination, in the city.

In the author’s own words, the book aims to let the reader “experience the pleasure of identification”. The accessible language in which it is written certainly helps, as academic terminology is generally avoided. This makes Stranger in the Shogun´s City not just a must– read for anyone working or interested in the field of Japanese history but highly appealing for readers who are unfamiliar with these topics as well.

Jim Dwinger

One of Tsuneno's letters, courtesy of the author

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