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ОглавлениеIntroduction
Historical Background
It does not seem fair to hurl an interested reader directly into the twentieth-century world of contemporary Japanese prints without providing a few historical signposts along the way. The complex journey of Japanese prints from "then" to "now" extends back at least to the eighth century, and we would like briefly to mention some of the crossroads.
The importation of Buddhism to Japan from China through Korea in the sixth century created the necessity for devotional images. The missionaries brought, along with their philosophy, the art of woodblock printing. Circa A. D. 765 Japan's Empress Shotoku, who was an avid follower of the new religion, decided that everyone else should be too. She ordered millions of sutras, amulets, images, and prayers to be printed for dissemination among the temples and the populace. The new religion (unlike the indigenous Shinto religion, which had little iconography) required representational art to portray its extensive pantheon. This art had to be quickly produced in multiple copies, and for that purpose the woodblock medium was well suited. During the following centuries woodblock prints associated with Buddhism were produced with an ever-increasing degree of technical expertise.
In the late fifteenth century Portuguese and Spanish trading vessels came to Japan, introducing Christianity as well as the art of copperplate etching and other Occidental methods of drawing and printing. However, due to the strict ban on Christianity officially imposed by the shogunate in 1637, the learning of these techniques was discouraged because of their foreign and religious associations.
Until the middle of the seventeenth century, fine art, especially painting, had been the province of the elite classes—samurai, nobility, and priests. After Tokugawa Ieyasu set up the shogunate in Edo (now Tokyo) in 1603, a new class began to arise—merchants and townsmen—with its own demands for popular mass art. Woodblock prints began to be churned out as book illustrations, as broadsheets and advertisements, as albums of erotica and novels, as wall decorations and souvenirs of travels, and as simple scenes depicting contemporary manners and customs.
The heyday of this genre occurred from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries, and the prints are known as ukiyo-e (Japan's antique woodblock prints, literally pictures of the fleeting world). Japan was still an isolated country much turned in upon itself, but the class of society that had recently come to the fore created a demand for mass-produced art. Ukiyo-e were definitely a product of the rapid social changes occurring among newly affluent city dwellers.
These woodblock prints of colorfully bedecked courtesans, flamboyantly dramatic Kabuki actors, and dramatically presented landscapes (especially those of Hiroshige and Hokusai) have been Japan's cultural ambassadors for decades. Even as recently as twenty years ago, when the Japanese government or the Cultural Affairs Agency was asked to mount a show of Japanese prints overseas, it invariably trotted out ukiyo-e as representatives of Japanese print art. Frankly these works, no matter how lovely one may consider them, have been the bane of our existence as dealers in contemporary Japanese prints. Not only have they convinced Western minds that coy geisha and grimacing actors are the symbols of Japan, but they have also come to be regarded everywhere as the sole representatives of Japan as "the land of the woodblock print." In the meantime, Japanese artists have moved far ahead, anticipating the twenty-first century, and these old cultural icons are no longer fitting to represent the Japanese print world. It is true, of course, that Japan has long been renowned for its artists' expertise in woodblock printing, but not to the exclusion of the multitudinous other techniques currently being used in the print world.
We will make the point numerous times, but this might as well be the first mention: the Japanese excel at what they choose to do. They have borrowed many things from other cultures, both Asian and Western, perfecting them and making them their own. Everything is grist for the collective national mind in every field of endeavor, and art is no exception.
The ukiyo-e print, in particular, which has made a worldwide impression, was the product of several people: an artist, a carver, a printer, and a publisher. The collaboration worked well. The artist provided the design (quite often suggested by the publisher, who was usually not only educated but also astute as to what would please the public); the carver pasted the design on the block and did the appropriate carving; the printer pulled the proofs; the publisher handled distribution. Ukiyo-e were extremely popular with the general Japanese public, but the formal art establishment regarded them simply as multiply reproduced pictures for the mass market and therefore not worthy of serious consideration. The editions were not numbered and even today it is guesswork to decide exactly how many were made originally.
With the diplomatic opening of Japan to the outside world in 1853 (with the famous "black ships" of Commodore Perry setting the tone) communication began to flow in two directions. Western painting and printing techniques, perspective, and color were of great interest to the heretofore isolated Japanese artist, while the charming and exotic ukiyo-e crossed the seas to become a hit in Europe, influencing such important Impressionist artists as Whistler, Degas, Cassatt, Manet, Monet, Van Gogh, and Toulouse-Lautrec. (It is interesting to note that many Japanese who traveled abroad in the twentieth century were immediately attracted to these European artists, probably because the strong line and perspective they were using reminded them of their own tradition.)
In North America in the early days of the twentieth century, three Americans were fundamentally responsible for the fact that today the Boston Museum of Fine Arts has more than 100,000 ukiyo-e among its holdings. Ernest Fenollosa, a native of Massachusetts and a teacher at Tokyo Imperial University, began to collect in great numbers in 1888. He encouraged his friend Dr. William Bigelow, a Boston surgeon, to become interested in ukiyo-e, and Bigelow bought thousands. In the 1920s when Frank Lloyd Wright came to Japan to design and build the Imperial Hotel, he also was smitten and raised large amounts of money among Boston art lovers to add to the already phenomenal museum collection.
By the time the Japanese realized that both Europeans and Americans had acquired ukiyo-e in enormous numbers and had taken them abroad, there were not so many left in Japan. In addition, the production of ukiyo-e had begun to decline since the demand in Japan had disappeared, basically because the society and mores that had been depicted in these prints were no longer in existence. Ironically, Westerners, particularly in Europe, were creating bold, new, colorful compositions in the Japanese style, while the Japanese were eagerly attempting to assimilate the interesting methods of Western-style painting and printmaking.
During the Meiji era (1868-1912) it was clear that the art of ukiyo-e was seriously on the wane. For a short while there was a burst of enthusiasm for works portraying the newly arrived foreigners in the ports of Yokohama and Nagasaki, and these enjoyed a certain popularity because of their "exoticism," but the genre itself fell into a decline.
Thereafter Japan fought two wars (with China and with Russia), and in the decade or so following 1894 ukiyo-e-style prints of victorious battle scenes were in demand. Along with the importation of Western arts, letters, and science during this period was the introduction of aniline dyes, so one can often distinguish these Meiji era prints by their garish red and purple tones.
In the early twentieth century two differently focused art movements arose at the same time. One produced shin-hanga (new prints) and the other sōsaku-hanga (creative prints). The only thing they basically had in common was the use of the woodblock technique.
Shin-hanga are connected with the publisher Watanabe Shozaburo (1885-1962), who attempted to breathe new life into the then moribund ukiyo-e. Finding sympathetic artists, he encouraged the ukiyo-e method of collaboration among artist, carver, printer, and publisher, as well as the traditional ukiyo-e imagery of idyllic landscapes and "beauties," stylized portraits of beautiful women.
The three best-known artists of the early twentieth century are Ito Shinsui (1898-1972), Kawase Hasui (1883-1957), and Hashiguchi Goyo (1880-1921). Their prints are softly sentimental and lovely, and they enjoyed great commercial success because they were produced expressly to meet the demand of foreigners who wanted an image of "traditional Japan." They also helped perpetuate the myth of Japan as a land of graceful kimonoed women, continuously falling cherry blossoms, and ruined castles with a moon hanging overhead.
The world of sōsaku-hanga, however, with the woodblock technique as its chief medium of work, diverged in several ways important enough to change the course of printmaking in Japan. Through travel and exposure to magazines and art books, Japanese artists gradually became inspired by the artistic revelations coming from Europe, namely, that an artist could design, carve, print, and distribute his work by himself; that prints could be made in small, numbered editions; and, most important of all, that print art was an art form in its own right and not looked down upon as a "reproduction technique."
The sōsaku-hanga artists began to gain confidence, enough to enter their works in overseas juried biennials. In 1951 at the First Sao Paulo Biennial, Japanese sculptures and paintings were passed over, and prizes were awarded to the printmakers Saito Kiyoshi and Komai Tetsuro. The Japanese art establishment was stunned. In 1955 when Munakata Shiko won the Grand Prix at the Third Sao Paulo Biennial, it became clear in Japan that prints would now have to be considered in a different light—not as mass-produced works by artisans but as creative art in numbered editions. This was the beginning of the new role for prints in the Japanese art world.
The artists who came to prominent attention over the next two decades, especially internationally, were products of the sōsaku-hanga movement. They will be discussed in some detail later in this book since they were the liberal, imaginative, and indomitable springboard pointing the way for future generations of printmakers.
General Terms
Some of the terminology used in the book probably needs clarification. For example, we speak of "original prints," which seems a contradiction in terms, but the phrase traditionally means work that has been designed and personally executed by the artist on the block or plate to be handprinted. This is different from a "reproduction," which has been manufactured by mechanical or photographic means. Using the word print in a sentence like "I bought a print of the Mona Lisa when I was in Paris" adds to the confusion. The traveler in Paris may indeed have bought a "print," but that is not the sort of print we are referring to in this book. The word print is loosely bandied about, but we are narrowing the definition to mean a work of fine art made in multiple copies, each of which is an original. There is no "original" from which others have been reproduced by an automatic copier or photomechanical process. The print is a distinct and independent art form.
Over the years there have been several international conferences to try to pin down the meaning of the expression "original print." The convention agreed upon is that at the very least the artist must have been the creator of the idea and the executor on the medium used, whether it be wood, metal, stone, or screen, from which the inked image is then transferred to paper. In addition, the prints should be individually numbered and signed by the artist.
In the early days of the creative-print movement in Japan, the artist wished to do everything himself—create the design, execute it on the block, and do the printing as well. But we must remember that at that time, in the early twentieth century, woodblock prints were the primary form of print art in this country, probably because one needed only a small studio and a few tools to carry out the various processes.
Nowadays, with a preponderance of silkscreen and lithographic prints, it is an accepted international practice to use a professional printer. This has come to be the case in Japan as well. The average artist's biggest stumbling block in this country is lack of space. It is difficult for an aspiring artist in Tokyo, for example, to be able to afford the astronomical price required to buy or even to rent a small studio in which to house a behemoth of a lithographic press—or even to afford the press itself.
The solution is to use an established atelier operated by skilled, professional printers who are completely in tune with the artists for whom they work. An artist often collaborates with only one printer, who understands his special requirements. The printer must have a rapport with the artist so that he can contribute the experience, knowledge, technical expertise, and especially the quality demanded by the artist. Shinoda Toko, for example, has used the same printer, Kimura Kihachi, for thirty years.
There are quite a few professional ateliers in Japan manned by hard-working, conscientious printers who strive for perfection. Their desire to produce work of impeccable quality is part of the Japanese artisan tradition of craftsmanship. Since there are numerous studios, the competition is keen, and artists can shop around until they find the exact one to suit their needs.
The advantages for an artist in having a good printer are many. The most important is that the artist is free to think, to create, to imagine a new work without having to go through the time-consuming process (or drudgery, some would call it) of printing what has already been invented. The printer, who is a professional with a skilled staff, can operate with speed and excellence, printing an entire edition at once and greatly simplifying the life of the art dealer and the public as well, both of whom are waiting in the wings for the new masterpiece to be released. This is the scenario for a great number of silkscreen and lithographic print artists in producing their works.
On the other hand, Japanese woodblock printmakers, for the most part, still prefer to do their own work right through to the completion of printing. One reason may be that they do not need so much room, since they ink each block by hand and print their works without a large press or a studio space of magnificent size. An equally important consideration might be that they actually enjoy the tactile interaction with the handmade paper and the natural wood, and that the carving and printing processes give both a physical and an emotional pleasure. In addition, some artists like to test the water to see whether or not their new print will be popular and saleable. Woodblock print artists, in particular, have the option of printing just a few copies. There is no need to make the whole edition if the first prints do not have a warm reception. Those artists who use printing ateliers are committed to having their entire editions printed at once. Of course, printing an entire edition can be a disadvantage if, for some reason, the work fails to attract an audience.
This self-printing by woodblock makers is common in Japan, but the complete edition of a print is seldom pulled all at once. The artist gets tired or bored and wants to go on to something new. He keeps a journal, however, in which he lists the title of the print and how many copies he eventually intends to produce. If he sets the total edition number at fifty, for example, perhaps he makes ten at first and then goes on to another work. It may even be a few years before he gets out his old blocks and decides to make another ten copies because he happens to be in the mood to work on that particular print.
This pattern was especially common in the early years of the creative-print movement. The artists were basically interested in creating a print, carving it, and printing just a copy or two to see the various results that could be obtained. Many of the earlier print editions have never been pulled in their entirety.
The older sōsaku-hanga print artists are notoriously the most individualistic of all. Some of them dated their prints the year they first printed them; others dated them the year the block was carved no matter how much later they may have been printed; and still others refused to date their prints at all. There is a lot of work coming up for the art historian fifty years from now!
When we speak of an "edition," we are referring to the total number of prints to be made from a specific image. "Original prints" are in "limited editions," an order indicated on the bottom of the print, as in 32/50, with 50 meaning the size of the entire run and 32 indicating that particular number among the fifty.
People often ask if a lower number is better than a higher one. Our experience has been that there is seldom any difference. First of all, in Japan (and we are speaking in particular about contemporary Japanese prints, in which nothing less than excellent technical execution would even be considered), the editions are relatively small so it is highly unlikely that the block or plate will get worn down and produce an image of a lesser quality.
Secondly, who knows what is first and what is last? We have been present in an artist's studio as he was preparing to number an edition. He had just spread it all out when his telephone rang. When he returned to begin his numbering, he started at the opposite end to that he had originally chosen!
In addition, when there are many stages in the printing of each color, the artist hangs each print up to dry here and there, not necessarily in the order in which he printed them, so there is bound to be some confusion. Some people feel better if they own a #1, and perhaps that magic number will have some commercial value later on. But it does not necessarily indicate the first print produced, nor does it mean that it was the best printing.
The technical standard of printing in the Japanese print world is very high, but when works of art are pulled by hand there are bound to be small variations. That variety is the beauty of a handmade work as opposed to a photocopied reproduction. Sometimes the first few prints pulled seem the best; sometimes the artist does not get into his stride until he has warmed up and made twenty prints or so. But keep in mind that in Japan technical excellence can be taken for granted, so the real criterion is whether or not you like the print. And with copies of the same print, the one you like is the one for you.
An aesthetic evaluation is subjective. If one has a few copies to choose from, the selection process can sometimes be difficult because the variations are minute. On the other hand, if there is only one copy to look at, comparison is irrelevant. Making an effort to look at prints in galleries and museums adds to one's knowledge and helps develop an eye for knowing what is excellent and what is mediocre. It is important for a budding collector to find a gallery with a good reputation for handling fine work, one whose taste in artists corresponds to that of the collector, and one whose staff is willing to be an educational source as well. There is no substitute for putting in the time simply to "look."
In addition to the works that are strictly numbered in the "limited edition" series, one may come across another notation at the bottom of a print, A.P. or AP for artist proof or E.A. for épreuve d'artiste. Originally the term artist proof simply meant a test or trial proof of the different stages in the printing process. Later it came to be called a bon à tirer, the artist's notation on the final proof indicating that the printer could then proceed, using that particular proof as the standard for printing the entire edition.
Nowadays the term has evolved to mean that artists by convention are allowed to make ten percent of their edition in the artist-proof category. Some artists number their proofs, as in A.P. 2/5, some use Roman numerals to indicate proofs, but there is no fixed rule. Some artists simply write A.P.
In general, the idea of artist proofs has some merit. The artist has A.P.'s to use as entries in biennials or for other exhibition purposes, to give as gifts, or for a reciprocal exchange with other artists. The temptation to abuse this system exists, however. There are a few artists who, upon discovering that a particular print has been wildly popular, will continue to make A.P.'s for the market as long as the demand lasts. Fortunately this is not a common practice among Japanese artists, but people who are interested in collecting should be aware of it. We find that we look at A.P.'s with a gimlet eye since we view the practice as a basically reprehensible one. Collectors who pay for a limited-edition, numbered print should not have their investment diluted by a plethora of A.P.'s manufactured by the occasional greedy and unscrupulous artist. As a result of this feeling, our gallery policy has been not to traffic in artist proofs at all.
As collectors we must confess that we have occasionally bought an A.P. because we loved the particular print and could not pass it by. Usually this has happened with the older prints of the sōsaku-hanga era, when the editions were quite small. As owners, however, we do not sell artist proofs in our galleries.
Along with the edition number at the bottom of the print, one is also likely to find the title and the artist's signature. One cannot generalize about these, however. Sometimes prints are not titled at all; some artists sign their name at the bottom but others use their personal seals; other artists do both, sign and chop.
Generally speaking, the edition number, title, and artist's signature are written in pencil at the bottom of the print. Why pencil? In the case of original prints, it seems to be the tradition worldwide but, of course, there are exceptions. We clearly remember that in the early days Saito Kiyoshi often signed his name in white ink on the image itself.
Another question often asked is why so many Japanese artists title their works in English. (We have noticed that those artists who have studied at the famous French ateliers also like to title their prints in French.) One immediate thought is that perhaps they feel it is exotic or chic. But the answer is more fundamental than that.
The first audience to recognize, love, and appreciate the artistry of Japanese prints has always been foreigners. The Japanese never considered their early ukiyo-e prints as "art." Only when the
Impressionists found them a source of inspiration, when Dutch, German, and French collectors began to lavish praise and actually buy them, and when the Americans began to collect seriously for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts did the Japanese begin to pay attention to their own prints.
The reason contemporary prints are almost always titled in Roman letters is related to this phenomenon, and history, not surprisingly, is repeating itself. It is a fact that again today it is foreigners—most galleries would estimate approximately eighty percent—who are the buyers of contemporary Japanese graphic art. Therefore, it is counterproductive for an artist to title his work in Japanese since most of his potential audience may not be able to read it.
Contemporary Japanese prints are still being bought on the international level by private collectors, museums, and galleries as fine examples of the most creative and sophisticated graphic art being produced today. But where are the Japanese buyers? There are a few, of course, who are aware of and appreciate what present-day artists are doing. They are among those whom one would call confident and knowledegable, and they deserve praise for having the courage of their convictions. Unfortunately there are not many of them. The average Japanese may be reluctant to say what he really likes for fear of being laughed at. He would rather go with world opinion for the tried-and-true masters because that view avoids embarrassment.
Great publicity in recent years has been given to those Japanese who have rushed to the various famous auction houses to buy Impressionist paintings at outrageously inflated prices. At the same time another group of Japanese, enjoying their affluence during the "bubble economy," also dashed off to the same auction houses in Europe and the U.S. to buy and bring back their own ukiyo-e prints of the eighteenth and nineteenth century, prints that had long charmed the West and had won a loving and appreciative audience there but had been scorned by the Japanese art establishment in the past.
Suddenly these very same prints, which allegedly had once been used as wrapping paper for shipping Japanese porcelain abroad—this story may be true, since the works were produced in enormous quantities—were commanding unheard-of prices in all the art "marts." The Japanese were out there buying everything and bringing it back home.
Printing Techniques
Today's prints are a far cry from the ukiyo-e of yore. The diverse and high-tech choices available to printmakers now are almost without limit. An artist can combine any number of other processes with the woodblock, lithograph, silkscreen, and etching techniques, which are the basic types of printmaking media, to produce what is termed a mixed-media print. He can experiment with photographic techniques, lasers, computer graphics, collages of diverse materials built up on a matrix and then printed (collagraphy). In short, the latest scientific printing breakthroughs are the Modern print artist's dream. Young Japanese artists enjoy blending all of the new processes with those from their own ancient woodblock and stencil heritage, thereby creating something new and uniquely Japanese.
Each artist responds to the multitude of techniques available in an individualistic way because each technique conveys a different feeling on paper. Artists do not choose printing techniques at random. They use one form or another because it is emotionally or technically satisfying for what they wish to portray: the texture of handmade paper and wood grain in a woodblock print; the painterly effects achievable in a lithograph; the purity of solid color and hard edges characteristic of a silkscreen; the exquisite detail possible in an etching.
Despite the numerous variations available, print techniques can be reduced to some basic forms. We do not want to write a book about the numerous techniques because that information is widely available, but we would like to provide some rudimentary information as a guideline for the general reader.
The relief print includes woodblocks, wood engravings, linocuts, and collagraphs. Knives, gouges, scoops, or chisels are used to cut away the part of the material that will not be included in the image. The raised surface is inked and printed, with a separate carving, inking, and printing of each block for a multicolored print. Since a separate block is used to print each color, the placement of the paper in the exact same spot on the inked block is required for precise color registration throughout the whole printing process. To insure that the color prints in the same place each time, the Japanese artist uses a kentō (a small groove about the thickness of the paper that is notched into the block, generally on the lower right corner and along the edge of the left side). The artists slides the paper into the kentō notching, thereby insuring that it does not move and that the color registers consistently in the exact area to be printed.
Woodcut print artists almost always use washi (handmade Japanese paper), which is dampened, put face down on the inked block to be printed, and then rubbed on the back in a circular motion with a baren (a handmade disk of tightly coiled rope within a bamboo sheath). Many woodblock artists make their own baren to fit their hand and their personal touch.
Woodblocks are especially suited for delineating strong lines and broad areas of color, and the grain of the wood plank itself can often be found as part of the texture in the final print. If one looks at the reverse side of a woodblock work, the circular rubbing strokes of the baren will be apparent where the ink has been absorbed into the paper. In the old days of ukiyo-e, cherry wood was employed, a wood that restricted the size of the final print. Today the woodblock artist has access to other choices, including plywood, so woodblock prints can be made in much larger sizes than ever before.
A wood engraving is different from a woodblock because the wood used is taken from the end grain of the block, and the tools used are those of an engraver, allowing the artist to achieve the fine lines and detail of an etching. Wood engraving is a less spontaneous process than woodblock printing and demands contemplation and patience.
The lithographic method of printing images from a flat surface (the planographic process) was invented by a German, Alois Senefelder, in 1798, and is based on the fact that grease and water do not mix. Lithographs are made on a specially ground and polished stone, zinc, or aluminum plate upon which the artist draws his image with a greasy crayon, pencil, or special oily ink. The plate is then chemically "set" with gum arabic and nitric or phosphoric acid. When the plate is dampened and inked for printing, the ink will adhere only to the greasy particles and will be rejected in the undrawn portions.
Lithographs require a press with a sliding bed that moves under a wood and leather scraper that applies the pressure to transfer the image to the paper. A separate plate is made for each color used. Because the artist can draw directly on the plate, he can enjoy spontaneity of gesture and can experiment freely. Sometimes the images resemble paintings, since many textures and tonalities can be achieved, depending on the skill of the artist.
Silkscreen printing (serigraphy) is basically a stencil process requiring a silk, nylon, polyester, or fine wire-mesh screen. The screen is tightly stretched across a wooden or aluminum frame and the areas not to be printed are blocked out by a material like paper, glue, or specially prepared lacquer film. The ink is forced through the screen with a rubber squeegee onto the paper below, where it appears to be lying on the paper's surface. One of the great advantages of silkscreen printing is that the image created on the screen does not have to be prepared in reverse by the artist, as is necessary in all of the other printing processes.
This printing method has its origins in primitive and prehistoric art, probably having been used even as a way of tattooing. In the Orient it has long been employed to create fabric designs. In Japan, as far back as the eleventh century, it was used to decorate samurai leather armor and horse trappings. Today, along with being a method for fine-art printing, silkscreen printing is widely used commercially since it can be applied to just about any surface—paper, vinyl, glass, cloth, ad infinitum.
A unique stencil technique employed in Japan is kappazuri, which requires a special matrix made by laminating together several sheets of washi with kakishibu (persimmon tannin), then smoke-drying the laminated sheet to produce a highly water-resistant and durable stencil. This method has been used for ages for dyeing Okinawan bingata textiles, for printing family crests on kimono, and as a supplementary technique in the making of ukiyo-e.
The artist affixes his rough sketch to the stencil paper and then cuts away his "key" impression with a small, sharp knife. From this "key" he will proceed to cut individual stencils for each color to be printed. Prior to the printing, a dye-resist paste is applied to the portions of the design to be left blank. Each color process requires an application of resist paste in the places not to be dyed. After the colors are all printed, the "key" stencil is placed over the print and the entire print is covered with the resist paste. The "key" is then removed, and when the paste has completely dried the uncovered "key" lines are printed with India ink. After the ink dries, the resist paste is washed off and the work is complete. One can see why the stencil has to be very strong to withstand all of these processes.
Intaglio (from the Italian meaning cut into or engrave) is a generic term for a variety of etching techniques. Pits or grooves are created on a copper, zinc, aluminum, or steel plate in two ways, either with a sharp tool or by the action of a strong acid solution. Greasy ink is then worked into these depressions and the surface of the plate is wiped clean. Using a press resembling a giant wringer, the artist places his dampened paper on the plate and runs it through the press. The intense pressure forces the paper into the incisions and the image is thus transferred. Intaglio prints are easy to identify because the printing pressure is so great that the plate leaves the image depressed and raises the margins surrounding it.
Basic intaglio processes executed with sharp tools are engraving, drypoint, and mezzotint. In engraving, the artist uses a wedge-shaped or pointed steel instrument called a burin to work directly on the plate, scraping the metal away. The result is a hard, crisp line. In drypoint, a steel needle displaces the metal on the plate, not only incising a line but leaving a burred edge. Both incision and burr hold ink, so the resulting printed line is soft and feathery. Mezzotint is similar to drypoint except that a rough burr is raised all over the plate with a heavy, serrated tool called a rocker, so that the plate will print totally black. Tones are then developed with a burnishing tool. (Hamanishi Katsunori, one of Japan's outstanding young mezzotint artists, says that creating this burred background with a rocker is boring and tedious and he does it while watching TV.)
The most common intaglio processes using acid are etching and aquatint. In an etching, scrapings in the plate are produced by drawing with a needle through an acid-resistant wax base and then immersing the plate in an acid bath that "bites" into the lines. Darker lines are produced by lengthening the immersion time and strengthening the acid. In aquatint, the plate is dusted with rosin particles, which are then melted to adhere them to the plate. The acid in the bath bites around the particles to create a tonal effect. This process is often combined with other intaglio techniques.
Printmaking seems well suited to the Japanese temperament, which prizes excellent and precise workmanship. In oil paintings or watercolors, one can sometimes discern the occasional blurring of a line, a little smudge here or there, and find it unique or charming. But there are no allowances made for any vagaries in the execution of a print. There can be no element of chance when the knife cuts into the wood, no tentativeness in the engraving of a plate. The line is final; there is no going back. Everything is clearly calculated to produce an exact and certain result.
Print artists are always intrigued by the many avenues available to achieve their desired expression. Moreover, it is impressive to see the broad range of imagery, techniques, and combinations that emerges from each new generation of artists. The creative use of these varieties adds to the delight of the collector.
On top of that, we can add that Japanese printmakers in particular have long been noted for their respect and feeling for their materials, for their artistic sensitivity, their single-minded devotion to their work, their eye for composition and color, and their heritage of printing. Japan has changed a great deal, overwhelmingly in just the past two decades, but artistic ideals have remained consistently high.
This bustling country provides an atmosphere rich in contrasts, having jumped from a long, feudal, isolated past into the mainstream of the international economic and political world in just 135 years. The contemporary Japanese artist has a virtual panorama of images to draw on, from quaint temple gardens to the glitzy neon of the Ginza. And now that so many artists are traveling and studying in foreign countries, they are culling additional inspiration from both East and West for a visually exciting and stimulating amalgam of original work.
The art of the print is alive and well in the hands of the Japanese printmaker, who at present, as never before, is enjoying a confident and prominent position on the international art scene. The outpouring of vigorous and exuberant new work is a delight.
The prints illustrated here provide ample visual proof that Japan's new cultural ambassadors have the same appeal and vitality as their ukiyo-e predecessors and are a testimony to a continuing tradition of virtuosity and elegance. They are the nation's cultural voice in the international art forum, the couriers of a continuing contribution to the world of print art.
