Hello, my name is Thomas Schneider. As of today, Dec. 13th, 2021, I study Japanology at the University of Cologne. As you probably know, our city is home to the oldest museum of East Asian Art in Germany. It hosts an extensive collection of Japanese woodcut prints, fondly referred to as “ukiyo-e”, a term sometimes loosely translated as “Pictures of the Floating World”. As part of a seminar on “Culture of the Edo-period” in the winter semester 2020/21, I was given a chance to share my passion for these. Given the vast number of prints in circulation, I had to be selective. The images I have the pleasure of introducing spoke to me, or maybe better: resonate with me. Whilst am intrigued by subject matter, technique and the artist behind each print, given a limited cultural understanding, it is the emotional attachment and shared humanity that seems most important to me as a foreigner. To misquote my professor: because of the general lack of an interdisciplinary research approach, Japanology offers a virtual space in which fact, myth and fiction can dance side by side undisturbed. It is well-known that Japanese woodblock prints were not just popular in their home country but exerted an early fascination on Westerners, for example when they were exhibited in pavilions at the Paris Universal Exhibition of 1867. They inspired artists such as van Gogh and Monet to paint the “Japon-is-me” way. As a scientist, the true Japanologist takes an objective approach to cultural heritage, that is: he classifies, measures, dates and orders works in historical context and makes inferences about the culture and society at the time of their creation. In doing so, he unfortunately often rushes to apply contemporary standards instead of accepting a work “as it is”. Yes, we need frameworks for structure, to lay down sort criteria. Here is a temporal categorization adopted from the wonderfully illustrated work “Japanese Woodblock Prints” by Andreas Marks. This appeared the year before last, 2019, in the Taschen Verlag on the streets of Cologne. Of course, as with a stamp exhibit, Marks could have chosen different drawers to order his collection, say, for example, by theme, style or school. Regardless of the scheme chosen, one is amazed by the variety and breath of subject matter from a bygone age when there existed no photography nor other printing process. In fact, xylographic letterpress woodblock printing has been practised in Japan since the 8th century. This slide summarizes the progression from the monochrome transfer to the full brocade realized by successively rubbing off colours applied to the raised surfaces of multiple carved cherrywood plates. The evolution that occurred during the period of the “early masters” is considered complete by the mid 1760’s. In a relatively short time span of 80 years, publishing had progressed from the exclusive surimono, the often manually re-coloured print reserved for the connoisseur, to a mass medium affordable and thereby accessible to the public at large. A financially lucrative business - mainly centred on Edo (modern Tokyo) and to a lesser degree on Osaka - had evolved, that supported a large number of publishers, artists and artisans. Technological innovations involved the accurate lining up of the print blocks, the make-up of the colours, the distribution of the work and sale activities. The durable paper used as the print medium - referred to as washi - however, remained essentially unchanged. First editions of 300 or more impressions were common and over 10,000 impressions could be run off for popular editions. The longevity of the blocks – which could be partially recut or replaced individually as necessary - is thanks to the ink being allowed to soak into the paper rather than being stamped onto it. It is important to ensure the blocks do not dry out and crack and that the fibres of the washi paper are moist enough to accept the colour during the transfer. The paper needs to be intermittently dried to avoid smudging. The so-called “key block” that provides the monochrome outlines of an image based on the print designer’s paper sketch, is usually the first to show signs of wear.
Hishikawa Moronobu is generally regarded as the person who originated and defined the term ukiyo-e in 1682: “pictures that show the daily life of the people, their festivals and their environment.” As such, the term strictly refers to the content of an image, not the medium or technology used. It thus covers han-ga, i.e., woodcuts, as well as nikuhitsu-ga, that is paintings done directly on paper with a brush, as well as anything that falls in between. Uki-yo – written with different kanji or Chinese characters – traditionally refers to the Buddhist religious concept of the impermanence of life, which in Edo produced an ironic twist: people immersed themselves in worldly pleasures. This found commercial expression and its lasting reflection in the art of ukiyo-e. Moreover, some aficionados see an allusion to uki-e, that is: “floating pictures” or “threedimensional illusions”. The iconic print reproduced here – of the squinting “thief” Edo-bei – is an example of a yakusha-e, that is: the image of a kabuki actor. A series of such portraits by the enigmatic Sharaku appeared over a short period of just 10 months in the year 1794. The authorities sensed political critique and quickly banned dissemination of these high-quality prints. Publishers were well advised to stay on the right side of the powers-that-be: from 1790, an aratame stamp signalling the approval of the state censor was formally required prior to any publication. It is not surprising to find that han-ga evidence a variety of older painting styles, as well as external influences. Artists from across the land flocked to the Musashi plane in the 17th century to build the new metropolis of Edo at mouth of the Sumida river into a large bay and fortify the residence of the new military commanders, the Tokugawa shôguns, who managed to rule the land and essentially seal off the country to colonial powers for almost 250 years. Despite an impoverishing aristocracy over this period spanning 15 shôgun, the artists and their descendants - living in, by 1720, Edo, the largest agglomeration on earth - needed to finance their livelihoods. These artists turned their commercial attention to the up and coming class of the merchants and city dwellers. Initially, we find many different paper formats. Here is an example of a hashira-e, a column picture, printed with only four natural pigments. It could be attached to the wooden pillar of a humble Edo abode or used as a kakemono, or hanging scroll. In this way, even the petty bourgeois could enjoy some modest luxury and demonstrate his sense of taste – a basic human need that the poet Tsurezuregusa already knew to recognize and formulate 700 years before our time. Besides art on folding screens, inner walls and wooden boards hung in mansions and temples, the Nihon-jin of the Middle Ages knew how to illustrate religious painted scrolls – so called emaki. In a similar way, a shunbon – literally a “spring roll” or a scroll with pornographic illustrations – can be assembled from several printed pages, folded as an accordion or bound as a booklet. This was successfully practiced in Edo: tea house proprietors and industrious individuals soon realised money could be made from informative pamphlets and advertisements, for example to the pleasure quarters and bathhouses, and with travel guides. Politically, this was not especially problematic for the bakufu as long as the relevant institutions were licensed and taxed. Vigorous rivalry resulted amongst publishers and artists, spurring innovation and the effort to spot and ride every latest fashion trend in pursuit of the paying customer. A single print is said to have cost as little – or as much, depending on your point of view - as a bowl of rice or a simple meal, although prices obviously reflected quality and popularity. Let’s take a closer look at the biography of an e-shi, a print designer of the early period, whose work we have already come across twice so far. Many art critics disparagingly refer to Isoda Koryûsai as a “bridging artist”. It was his misfortune to be flanked by two masters of ukiyo-e: Harunobu as the predecessor and Kiyonaga as the heir. Despite this, some see in him one of the most productive artists of the 18th century with a great number of works to his name, of which a sufficiently large number of copies survive to this day.
We see two samples from Isoda Koryûsai’s famous series “models for fashion” from which over 140 different specimens are known. The aesthetic of the clear lines and the splendour of the kimonos is startling. As evidenced by the title, the illustrations were produced for the “lady of the house”, to move product. Star-models of the chaya – tea houses – are accompanied by younger ladies, ladiesin-waiting, or shinzô. In this slide, I juxtaposed a random citation from the Genji monogatari. It soon became popular to add poems to the ukiyo-e images of attractive models. Now for two typecasting portrayals. Left: Hanamurasaki of the Tama House, typical as an illustration of an oiran – a high ranking courtesan. She is in the midst of composing just such a poem, as we are informed by the description added by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To the right: Santô Kyôden, the successful writer and ukiyo artist, known especially for his kibyôshi “Edo umare uwaki no kabayaki”, which roughly translates as: “roast eels, the genteel expoits of an Edo high-born”, published in 1785. The gentleman is distinguished by his long pipe which he likes to have stuffed in good company. Title and signature are missing on this impression. The Museum of Fine Arts Boston speculates that these might have rubbed off together with the glimmer – of which a few traces remain. Another possibility is that we are dealing with a special edition, for which such text was never added. Whatever – it is images such as these that remind anyone who has ever tried to sketch themselves how hard it is to realistically depict the anatomy of the human hand. Next, I want to speak about symbolism, that is: the iconography and ambivalence of ukiyo-e. Here, we have the motif of the bull or ox picked up by different artists. However, only Masanobu’s picture on the left makes it abundantly clear that the ox is in fact a symbol recalling an old Chinese legend: that of the lovers Shokujo and Kengyu. Like the stars Vega and Aquila of the Milky Way, the two are only allowed to meet once a year, on the 7 th day of the 7th month. Masanobu’s image shows a girl playing the koto below bamboo shoots hung with votive papers typical and indicative of the season. From the lecture of Dr Matsuba Ryoko on Jan 21 st, 2021, recommended by my lecturer on “Reading popular prints in Early Modern Japan”, I learnt that we might conclude - by knowing the earlier print - that in Harunobu’s illustration - centre page – Shokujo is riding Kengyu, symbolised as the ox. There are other interpretations: The Art Institution of Chicago sees a parody of the story of the monk Shôkaku riding a bull. Although the bull’s characteristic headdress is missing from the image, the hair pin might symbolise an author’s pen. Personally, I find the image to the right the most pleasing: the beast is wilder, the kimono more ostentatious and the ambience more atmospheric. Whilst we may be unsure whether we see pictured ancient rodeo practices or subliminal ghostly warnings, the 3D uki-e effect of the image is unmistakable. Here we have two further illustrations from the same series by Utagawa Kunisada that appeal mainly for their well-aged colours. Kunisada delights with a “two in one” or even “three in one”, depending on your preference or point of view. The overall effect is reminiscent of a blue-screen broadcast: in the background, a scene typifying the respective staging posts along the Tôkaidô – the highway between Edo and Kyôto – echoing Hiroshige’s successful Hôeidô edition. As a bonus, Kunisada introduces a kimono-clad courtesan with an instrument to the foreground of the image. But how can we tell an ukiyo-e original from a fake? Of course, we could listen to experts and pay attention to provenance. The amateur might be fooled into thinking the top-right image depicts a scene from the Chûshingura, the “Revenge of the 47 rônin” or masterless samurai. Despite the misleading title of the print and Hiroshige’s signature, this is in fact not the case. The expert immediately spots that the figures were pasted in and are hovering like drones in the air. Such slapdash composition could impossibly have been created by a quality artist such as Hiroshige. Nonetheless, we can find solace in the image’s artisanal qualities: the dry colour texture of the mushroom-like tree and brush markings in the sky. By comparison, the authentic Hiroshige in the
bottom right corner is decidedly boring. To complete the page, I added the pre-requisites for an amusing card game: 25 noble gentlemen in dynamic poses and full armour. Unfortunately, I have so far been unable to identify the artist or date the print since this sheet, marked page 4, was extracted from a larger oeuvre. To better understand how the expert tells real from fake, I pasted together four pages credited to Hiroshige courtesy of the Museum of Fine Art in Boston. These undated images capture the complete Chûshingura at a glance. The story reads like a modern manga but without distracting and often unintelligible speech bubbles. These typical scenes impress for their economical but pleasing use of a limited colour palette and the neat bokashi (colour graduation). Please allow them to stand in for Hiroshige’s more famous works that you probably know anyway from exhibitions. We simply do not have time today to look at every yakusha-e, sumô-e and every bijin-e visage and the wide range of poses, grimaces, make-up and hairstyles. But let us at least consider two representative samples: left, part of a damaged 1st generation Kunisada triptych sumô-e from the year 1829, the “Golden Period” according to Marks. Here on the right, 27 years later, 1856, a dramatic eye-to-eye yakusha-e close-up at the end of the “Peak Production Period” at the point of transition to the “Last Phase”, now by Kunisada the 2nd. The snowflakes – or was it the milky way? – and the lady’s kimono recall the Kambara-#15-post station scene, though there is no bull in this picture. At this stage, we might as well view a few more Kunisadas, or better: Impressions of the Toyokuni school. Like Kyorûsai in the Early Period of the ukiyo-e before him, Kunisada was extremely productive during the time Mark’s terms “Peak Production”. He was fortunate – unlike many of his e-shi compatriots – to have managed to make some money with his art and gain a certain independence. Here we see shinzô fooling about on horses in a mock tournament. Such dances were often put on to entertain rich patrons. The prickly pine trees in the background suggest that it is the New Year, in fact the transition from the Kaei to the Ansei age, just one year on from Perry’s ships appearing off the coast of Kanagawa. Note the cute hinoko chicks lovingly incorporated into the seam of the kimonos. Regretfully, we are missing the 3rd page of this ôban format triptych. I am advised this can happen when an envious spouse separates the courtesan depicted on the 3rd page from her shinzô. Still, I find the reduction quite pleasing. On this slide we encounter another popular genre: real criminals of the day in kabuki staging. This series consists of a total of 8 protagonists who were each active during a different lunar phase. Hence the title: “imitation of moonshine scenes”. Kingorô’s pose in the left image is well struck, whereas a shadow - as thrown by Shichinosuke in the right image - is only sometimes found in nighttime ukiyo-e. Incidentally, the print was issued in 1857, 50 years after Eitai bridge, depicted in the background and first built in 1698, collapsed under the weight of the masses trying to reach the Tomioka Hachiman shrine during the matsuri festival. This wonderful ôban triptych celebrates the annual opening of the Sumida-river. We see yakatabune on the water and sales stands on the banks of the river. Ryôgoku bridge – “two lands bridge”, the oldest built by the shogunate for the river crossing – is experiencing heavy human traffic, a seemingly endless flow of people. Bridges could be lifelines during infernos that periodically engulfed the city after earthquakes, the so-called “Flowers of Edo”. This had occurred just 3 years prior to production of this print, in Ansei 2, 1855, claiming over 7,000 souls. The fire left the ShinYoshiware pleasure quarters of today’s Asakusa devastated. Who are the personalities in the foreground of the picture? Cartouches allow us to identify the names of some of these actors.
Here we see – to the left - a single lonely Kunisada from the bakumatsu period, 1861, incidentally the year the Japan trade agreement with Prussia was signed. The page is extracted from an album featuring 36 courtesans with titillating written descriptions of their sexual desires. Each print is marked by the seal of the chaya establishment responsible. Thanks to the transcription work of an NPO in Nakano, even the amateur can now have the prose machine translated. In any case, the courtesan and her single shinsô are bored and huddling next to a lantern and a heater – they have no customers because of the bad weather. On the right, an unrelated scene in the Ryôgoku neighbourhood some 8 years later – it is already 1869, the year Meiji 2. We have a typical encounter on the Yanagi or “Weeping Willow” bridge. This crosses the Kanda river prior to it merging into the Sumida river. The plectrum and strings of the koto are playfully used as decorative elements. The 8 prints comprising this attractive set can be viewed online courtesy of the Edo-Tôkyo Museum. You probably have heard about the Genji monogatari and the “way of the scent” game associated with its 54 chapters. This popular album by Kunisada the 2nd, from 1857, impresses with striking colours and splendid kimonos - personally, me more so than the long prose of what is known as the 1st novel in the world. Here we have extracted chapters 27, 33 and 50. Japanese love number games – the Tôkaidô also counts 53 stations, excluding the beginning or last station. The unique symbols used for the chapter markings allow us to readily identify the scenes. This educational triptych (courtesy of the British Museum) from 1857 comes from Kunisada’s shi-nôkô-shô series and shows a han-ga studio. We are reminded of the artisanal steps involved, like sharpening the implements, carving the blocks, pulling an impression and drying the paper. During this period, woodblock prints became decidedly more colourful: from around 1860, synthetic Anilin colours displaced the previously natural pigments. The propagandistic depiction of ladies is appropriate: in the bakumatsu period, women were recruited to assist with the rapid industrialization of Japan, struggling in competition with the Western colonial powers to assert its independence. This scene by Fusatane dates to 1867, some ten years later, just prior to the official beginning of the Meiji era. On Oct 23rd, 1868, the emperor supplanted the shôgun as the head of the Japanese state. This image is a parody of earlier shi-nô-kô-shô prints and shows the division of work in sericulture. The shogunate had established large-scale facilities for industrial silk production in the town of Tomioka, today’s Gunma prefecture, with the assistance of the French. In fact, many Japanese young women were condemned to work long hours of tedious and tiresome labour. The rapid succession of ill-fated shoguns and the transition of power to the emperor is mocked on these triptychs by the rapid change-out of the image of the kakemono, the hanging scroll. In fact, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, 1837 to 1913, the 15th and last Tokugawa shôgun who followed Tokugawa Iemochi after an untimely death at age 18, was never able to move into Edo castle during the two years of his nominal reign. Contemporaries joked about the “Nise Murasaki” and the “Inaka Genji”, i.e., “the false Murasaki” and the “country bumpkin Genji” – although little changed for those really doing the sericulture work! In the top 1865 print, lady Murasaki is paying a supervisory visit whilst the Genji is being entertained, a year later both the Genji and Lady Murasaki are on their feet, and the 1867 print of the previous page saw both the Genji and Lady Murasaki being put to work. Let us now wind back in time a few years and consider two random seminal moments in kabuki. Here we are in 1854, Ansei 1, the year of the signing of the accord of Kanagawa with the U.S. signalling the opening of designated Japanese ports for foreign trade. This is a scene from the piece “Ten’nichibô”. Somewhat reminiscent of Japanese shunga erotic prints, the gentlemen in the centre – thankfully covering his genitals – is having a just-in-time rude awakening. A samurai in a doubletailed fox kimono has intruded into the chamber from the right and is about to pull his katana from
its holster. The female companion in the skull-and-bones kimono has receded to the left with the weapon of the gentleman caught in flagranti. It is hard for us but probably not the Japanese to tell who the characters might resemble. Clearly, caution was advisable when visiting a Japanese ryôkan during the heady days of ’54! Here we have a further Kunisada promotional illustration of a piece by Chikamatsu Monsaemon, from 1859, 5 years later. At this point, the physically weak 13th shôgun, Tokugawa Iesada, has passed away - due to beri-beri, as people say. In the typical giri-nijô conflict of the kabuki, spearman Gonza is craftily overheard agreeing to a trick to marry Okiku. Unfortunately, Gonza is already engaged! When the secret plan is made known, he is publicly accused of infidelity. His subsequent escape with Osei ends in tragedy. Could this be any reflection on the political hanky-panky of the times, the breaking of the marriage of the emperor’s underage daughter Kazu-no-miya to the ill-fated young 14th shôgun Tokugawa Iemochi? Enough of the kabuki – let us cast our minds back to Japan’s glorious Middle Ages and look at another popular genre of ukiyo-e: warrior prints or musha-e. In this episode from the heike monogatari, the artist Sadahide imagines the Genpei wars of the 12 th century: here we have the sea battle in the Uji river on the outskirts of Kyôto. After Minamoto no Yorimasa and prince Mochito had fled across the river and destroyed the bridge, the Taira are engaged in offensive action in a roaring current whilst being showered by a hail of arrows from the defenders on the far shore. I like this print for its dynamism: iconic heroes in lethal combat in splendid armour on colourful horses, with wonderful depiction of the water. The war historian can surely gather many a useful fact by decoding the names, flags and headgear of the combatants – is that Ashikaga Tadatsuna in the centre with the long lance? Are the Taira the team with the yellow name cartouches? In any case, we know the battle is not going well for the prince and Yorimasa. This Kamakura print by Yoshitora dated to 1847 throws up even more of a mystery to the uninitiated, such as me. What is the meaning of the jail-like gate in the background and who is the person being secretly assassinated? What unscrupulous breach of the nightly peace - it is only fortunate someone found the light switch! Again, this work by Yoshitora appeals instinctively, but I could not find any information on it anywhere on the Internet. Who is the star dancing in the centre of the picture with the name Miura in the cartouche? He has strange hair and might be wearing foreign clothes? Here we have a final fight scene - by Sadahide from maybe 1848, depicting a battle from the Taiheiki at the beginning of the 14th century. Our acrobatic hero on his stallion has just catapulted a rival out of the way. The battlefield is in chaos and disarray, whilst at the same time the camp on the hill has been overwhelmed with its commander at gunpoint. Standards are fluttering in the hurricane whilst lances intermesh and ghostly pines oversee the bloody events. The deep colour saturation and clever bokashi shading of the hills lends the underlying tragedy of the print an aesthetic vibrancy. After all the excitement and uncertainty of meaning inherent in the kabuki and the musha-e, we should return to the more constant properties of the landscape print. In the years 1853 to 1856, that is from the time of Perry’s arrival in Japan and the 13 th shôgun Tokugawa Iesada picking up the reigns, Hiroshige produced an iconic print series of the 60 odd provinces of Dai-Nihon, or Greater Japan. This title page shows the provinces traversed by each of the main highways of the land. The work captures meishô (famous places) and meibutsu (famous treasures) of a nation at a time when the extent and division of the land in the face of rival Western powers was anything but decided.
Here we have three representative designs. The upright ôban format, narrow perspective and depth of vision were introduced by Hiroshige as a novelty. The beauty and force of nature, not man takes centre stage in most of these designs. Viewed from our modern perspective, they ominously foreshadow environmental issues we struggle with today. To the left, the image for Ise province that fails to show the famous shrines. We are looking across teahouse roofs from a high vantage point on Mount Asama and note the deforested hills towards the inlet to the Bay of Ise. In the middle, we are looking up from the depths of the Katsura river gorge with surahasi – Monkey bridge in Kai-domain, today’s Yamanashi-province – high above us. The current is strong, but the water level low and the steep walls high. To the right, fishing in former Wakasa domain. Large drag nets are efficient - but intensive fishing and high side catch can deplete the stock. The stations of the Tôkaidô were also re-issued by Hiroshige in vertical ôban format. Here, human fate receives special attention. In the example on the left from the Japan Diet Library from 1855, we have a scene from Hizakurige, also known as shank’s mare: on the Nawate road outside Akasaka (station #37) Yaji famously confuses Kita with a fox and starts beating him. To the right, 10 years later, the road viewed just two bends further down: A military procession is moving with lanterns, the moonlight casting ghostly shadows. I like the clever use of the woodgrain for the print. In spite of my promise on the first slide, let us wrap up this review of ukiyo-e impressions up to 1869 with a charming genre, the gijinka. Here, Kyôsai artistically depicts the so-called “Great Frog War” of 1864. I stumbled across this in a catalogue of one of my favourite galleries in Kanda Jinbôchô. Do go down there if you can - and visit the Ôta Memorial and Katsushika Hokusai museums when you get to Tokyo. Starting in 1814, the man single-handedly produced an encyclopaedic oeuvre of knowledge and miscellanea ultimately running to 15 volumes - man-ga sketches with amazing geometric-proportional observations, slow-motion studies and wit – and that is over and above his many famous landscape prints. Sorry I somehow skipped the grand master and much else today. It was just a personal scrapbook out of context. There is material for a possible part II – fortunately, life in Japan did not end in 1869. Even if the true meaning of ukiyo is an enigma to the foreigner, this does not stop us from appreciating, investigating and commenting on what we-see.