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Then

Our collection began with a woodblock print by Saito Kiyoshi called Clay Image, 1950 (presently on loan to the University of Maryland at College Park and thus not illustrated here). It depicts four haniwa (ancient Japanese clay tomb figures), two of them in full face and two in profile, executed in black, white, gray, and terracotta. I saw the print at an exhibition in New York in the fall of 1967 and knew that I had to have it. How can one explain this kind of elemental appeal that a work of art can exert? The faces of the figures were obviously from a primitive culture much like those that had produced the African or pre-Columbian artifacts that had such an enriching influence on many Western artists, including Picasso. Like them, these Japanese figures command a universal fascination because of their simplicity and vitality.

The print in New York was not for sale. "Maybe you could find a copy of it in Japan," said the clerk unfeelingly. Little did she know that a trip to Tokyo was on my schedule, a stopover for embassy consultation en route to my posting at the U.S. Consulate General in Hong Kong. Now after all these years of living in Japan I recall that day still. Imagine having only a thirty-six-hour stopover for official business and spending much of one's free time tramping the pavements looking for a print, with hardly a word of Japanese at one's command. I did not get the print at that time, but I got something even more valuable—Saito Kiyoshi himself—and we still have him as a dear friend after all these years.

I eventually located the Murakami Gallery, which specialized in Saito's work. A lengthy description of the composition was duly given to Mr. Murakami, who racked his brain and with patience and kindness showed me all of the Saito woodblocks he had on hand. They numbered into the hundreds, and though I leafed back and forth for almost three hours, the sought-after print did not appear. Much time had elapsed, and the still polite Mr. Murakami explained that he did not exactly know the print I was looking for and, in fact, seemed to doubt its existence, even though he was Saito's son-in-law and knew the master's works very well.

Since my heart was set on that print only, I thanked him for his time, bought nothing, and dejectedly turned to leave, actually bumping into an older gentleman in the doorway. "Wait!" shouted Mr. Murakami. "It's Saito-sensei." The thrill of meeting this famous man who had made such an impressive body of woodblock prints was a memorable experience. We have often wished in retrospect that we had been able to buy one of every work of his available that day.

Yet again, the story of the elusive print was told, with Mr. Murakami translating into Japanese for Saito. I did not speak Japanese at that time, and even today when interpreting between our clients and artists I clearly remember the frustration of not being able to communicate. Saito immediately recalled the print from my description. He said that he thought he had a copy in his studio, and if so it was mine. Lunch was then brought in and a long friendship was launched.

Several weeks later, Mary, on her way to join me in Hong Kong with two small children in tow, went through the "search and find" process—so much of the "charm" of getting around in Tokyo— located the gallery, got the print, paid the bill, and our collection was officially on its way.

We have long enjoyed the pleasure of Saito's friendship. During our time in Hong Kong, reading in the newspaper that he was to stop there on his way back from a sketching trip to India, I immediately phoned my counterpart in the Japanese Consulate General, Kato Koichi, now a well-known Japanese politician and recent chief cabinet secretary, whose response at that time to "Where is Saito Kiyoshi?" was "Who is Saito Kiyoshi?" Never one to give up, I phoned various hotels where Japanese were likely to stay and found him on the third try.

Mary and I quickly organized a large party and presented Saito to the Hong Kong art world. Later, after our transfer to Japan, he was the first artist we contacted, and his personal introduction to other artists, galleries, and personalities in the print world was instrumental in establishing us as serious art lovers and patrons. We have been guests in his home in Kamakura when he lived there, and have also visited him in Aizu Wakamatsu, his old hometown, current residence, and the subject of more than one hundred prints in the Winter in Aizu series. He has literally put the snowy scenes of this northern area on the artistic map. We are always invited to the openings of his many shows in Tokyo and make every effort to attend them all, including one on March 23, 1994, at the Odakyu Department Store Museum, taking place just as we are writing this. (We succumbed yet again and added another Saito to our collection.) During a recent opening of his works at the Odakyu Department Store in Shinjuku, Saito started to speak and suddenly stopped, telling the audience in his charming, unaffected manner, "I don't want to be saying the same old things over and over. Besides, there is someone here who knows more about Japanese prints than all of us." To our great surprise, he asked Norman to speak, the ultimate compliment from the master.

And so we begin with "Then" and Saito Kiyoshi, at a time when each purchase was a major decision, whose memory brings to mind an entire gamut of emotions and experiences that seems real even today. In those days Saito was often the first Japanese print artist whose work any foreigner might be expected to encounter. His woodblocks were extremely popular with Americans in postwar Japan, and hundreds found loving homes throughout the U.S. He was already famous when we began to collect, so it was not necessary for us to put our aesthetic feelings on the line by admitting that we loved his work. Everybody loved it. Even Time had used his compositions on two covers, portraits of prime ministers Sato Eisaku and Fukuda Takeo. Many museums collected his prints and he had won international acclaim as the first woodblock artist from Japan to capture a prize in the renowned First Sao Paulo Biennial in 1951. In addition to the technical excellence of the work, we enjoyed the colors, the exotic (to us, as newcomers to Japan) subject matter of haniwa, temple courtyards, and thatched-roof villages in wintry Aizu. Each print left a singular impression. After the fortitude required first to find the gallery and then to allocate the money to buy the print, each succeeding acquisition became gradually easier as our fortunes and sense of direction improved.

Saito's works are widely imitated, but to the aware art lover there is never any confusion as to the real thing. No one else uses those specific colors and no one else's work can convey that certain essentially Japanese predilection for texture, simplicity, and pattern epitomized in Saito's works.

Plate 2

Maiko, Kyoto (S) is an almost erotic composition showing the back view of a maiko (apprentice geisha) with the nape of her neck exposed, which is considered quite sensual in Japan. Saito has depicted her from an unusual angle, getting right to the heart (or neck) of the matter. Her kimono and patterned obi, in which the natural grain of the woodblock has been used to provide texture, are striking. With the understatement that characterizes Japanese prints, Saito has conjured up the entire geisha mystique simply by using four dabs of color—one of brilliant red and three of terracotta—to suggest the maiko's decorative hair ornaments. In the same terra-cotta hue, he depicts the neckline of the kimono from an unusual perspective, stirring the imagination and heightening the sensuality of the maiko. The beautiful face is not revealed, but is saved for one's imagination. Being able to own and repeatedly look at this print enabled us gradually to come to some understanding of the Japanese appreciation for what is unstated but implied.

Plate 3

In those days of collecting and searching for the "real Japan," Sekino Jun'ichiro seemed a likely artist to pursue. His vignettes of tranquil Kyoto courtyards, undulating tile roofs, and scenic villages presented glimpses of such irresistible charm that one suspected the artist of making them all up. The joy of discovering that the subject was a real place that could actually be visited was a delight almost as great as finding the print itself. Keio Hyakka-en (a place name) is such a print. Who could imagine that this idyllic vista of floral beauty, with its field of luxuriant irises, was not just in the artist's mind but was actually viewable if one got off the train at Keio Tamagawa Station in the suburbs of Tokyo. Now it is slightly annoying to find that recent compositions by other artists are often imaginary, but then it was different.

I am reminded of an incident that occurred many years after our collection had developed to significant proportions. Although we owned several of Sekino's landscapes, we had neglected a very important aspect of his oeuvre—his skill in portraiture. His depictions of Bunraku and Kabuki actors as well as other famous figures from the art world are well known. One particular portrait haunted us. We had never seen the actual print, but it kept appearing regularly in books, magazines, and catalogues. It was also featured prominently in Oliver Statler's book Modern Japanese Prints: An Art Reborn, an invaluable tool to anyone who is at all interested in the early days of the sōsaku-hanga movement. This trailblazing book was published in 1959 and reprinted numerous times by the same Tuttle Publishing Company involved in this work. Nine years later James Michener wrote The Modern Japanese Print: An Appreciation, also published by Tuttle. These two books were the first important works in English on the early Modern print artists and were the proverbial Bibles in our quest for prints. Even now hardly a day goes by when we do not cite them as references.

The Sekino print mentioned above, Kichiemon, Kabuki Actor, appeared in 1947. In those days immediately following the war, the creative-print movement itself was in its infancy, paper was scarce, editions were hardly ever pulled in their entirety, and records were sketchy. I despaired of ever finding and owning a copy of this print.

Then one day we were invited to a major retrospective of Sekino's work at the Central Museum Gallery on the Ginza. We all know that hope springs eternal, especially to collectors, and so it was with high spirits that we looked forward to the show. Mary, our gallery manager, Nagao Eiji, and I, converging from different quarters at the agreed hour, planned to meet at the Central Museum Gallery at five o'clock. Eiji and I, having finished our respective appointments early, used the time to drop in at the Yoseido Gallery, for us at that time the main source of sōsaku-hanga prints. I inquired in passing, not really expecting an answer, about Sekino's works. The gallery staff had, of course, also been invited to the retrospective and knew of the interest that such an event would engender. "Why, yes," they said, "we do have something that you might be interested in." Out came the portrait of Kichiemon. I still savor the moment.

But there was a catch to this story. The price they quoted was enough to stop even the most dedicated and well-heeled collector in his tracks. The gallery kindly agreed to hold the print overnight. Even they knew that the price required a bit of further consideration and that the print certainly was at the acme of saleability with the retrospective show occurring just down the street.

At five o'clock Eiji and I met Mary at the opening, got in line, congratulated the artist, listened to the speeches, and drank the toast. Then while others dug into the lavish buffet that usually accompanies such openings, our little threesome scurried around the show, scanning every piece and especially checking the tags. Considering the status and reputation of the artist, prices were not too high, though certainly not inexpensive. Kichiemon's portrait was not there. I felt it, of course, poignantly beckoning from the "hold drawer" at the Yoseido Gallery, so I knew it was safe at least overnight. We almost decided on several other works to buy, but before that were able to speak with Sekino and ask about the prints in the show. Smoothly (or so I thought) I inquired about his portrait of Kichiemon. "Oh, I think that was one of my very best works," said Sekino. "Of course, it's gone now, but if you ever find one you should have it at any price."

2. Saito Kiyoshi (b. 1907). Maiko, Kyoto (S), 2/150, 1961, woodblock, 75.5x44.5 cm. Signed on the image Kiyoshi Saito, sealed in kanji Kiyoshi.

3. Sekino Jun'ichiro (1914-88). Titled in Japanese Keio Ka Hya-en (Keio Flower Garden). (The Japanese should be Keio Hyakka-en but Sekino was known to transpose characters as well as edition numbers. He normally made editions of 128 but some prints are marked 182.) 24/128, 1986, woodblock, 32.9x45.1 cm. Signed Jun Sekino, sealed in kanji Jun.

That did it. We quickly excused ourselves, and there are probably people even today who recall Mary being lifted up under each arm by Eiji and me and trundled with alacrity down the Ginza back to Yoseido to retrieve Kichiemon before they closed for the night or changed their minds by morning. Mary regretted having to leave so many beautiful prints back at the retrospective. However, one look at Kichiemon was enough. She gulped at the price, we paid it, and took it home. It is still one of the most expensive prints we have ever bought.

Sekino died in 1988, but the role he played as a teacher and influencer of many artists, including Iwami Reika and Miyashita Tokio, is amply evident in many of the prints in this book.

Since we have had the privilege of living throughout Japan, in Tokyo, Yokohama, Sapporo, Kyoto, and for the past twenty years back in Tokyo again, our collection embodies a certain breadth that our repeated geographic relocation provided. At the start we did not know very much about Japanese history, customs, and culture, but as we continued collecting prints we were able to use our curiosity about them as a tool to learn more. Although many artists live in Tokyo, our postings in other cities put us in close personal touch with those artists who might have been otherwise unavailable or inaccessible to the novice.

It was obvious at the beginning that we would have to learn more about the two major religions of Japan, Shinto and Buddhism, particularly because temples, shrines, and pagodas are everywhere. Sasajima Kihei's Buddhist prints and Hiratsuka Un'ichi's renderings of temple and shrine precincts helped one appreciate not only the architectural accomplishments of Japan's coexisting ancient religions but their influence on a multitude of art forms.

Sasajima passed away last year, and although I was sad to hear the news since we have many of his prints that we count among our favorites, I cannot honestly say that their creator was someone whose company I particularly enjoyed.

Sasajima was a loner. Born in Mashiko, a rural locale known for its mingei (folk art) pottery, he came to Tokyo as a school teacher and was first introduced to prints when he happened to take an art class for teachers that was taught by the great Hiratsuka, one of the fathers of the sōsaku-hanga print movement. In addition, his hometown friend, a Living Cultural Treasure for pottery, Hamada Shoji, introduced him to Munakata Shiko, another Living Cultural Treasure for prints, and so Sasajima was in good hands with the best teachers and excellent connections. But somehow he never quite fit in, being on really friendly terms with only very few people, such as Saito Kiyoshi, whose warmth embraced everyone.

Knowing of his difficult personality perhaps I should not have been so optimistic when I went to ask him to allow us to sell his work in our fledgling gallery. An unsophisticated man from the countryside, Sasajima made no bones about not intending to take up with a yet unknown gallery (ours) and refused completely, abruptly, and finally.

I attributed his refusal to a major operation he had just had, my bad timing, and his overall poor health. Later I realized that Sasajima was definitely from the old school with a strong feeling for prior loyalties and may have felt that in his weakened condition he might be able to fulfill his commitments only to those galleries with which he already had a connection and obligation.

Our feelings for this artist's works are ones of admiration. His vigorous black-and-white woodblocks of raging mountain brooks, rugged forests, and other facets of the strength of nature are powerful and dynamic. However, that first face-to-face encounter made a disagreeable impression, and I have always remembered Sasajima's tongue as being as sharp and direct as his carving tools.

Plate 4

The uncompromising effect of black and white is this artist's forte. The untitled print of a Buddhist deity shown here was but one of a myriad of nearly similar compositions that he devoted his time to in his later years. The artist's desire to be a good craftsman is germane to his way of thinking about woodblock prints, and his starkly powerful works reflect this. The multifaced, multiarmed Buddha expresses another aspect of this artist—the importance of his religion. He hoped during his life to accumulate merit, as is the Buddhist belief, by producing thousands of these images, each one a prayer.

Hiratsuka Un'ichi, now aged 99, has lived in Washington, D.C., with his daughter since 1962, so it is hard to believe how much he had already accomplished in the print world in Japan before then. He is acknowledged as one of the stalwarts and a main teacher of sōsaku-hanga, having instructed dozens of young artists who went on to great heights. His role in establishing prints as a recognized, bona fide art form in Japan was carved out when most of the artists working today were not yet born. Through his decades of incessant chipping away by teaching, through his own writings, and through his promotion of various magazines specializing in print art, he was instrumental in forwarding the aims of the new movement and gave it heart and courage.

4. Sasajima Kihei (1906-93). Title unlisted but known to be one of a series on the Buddhist deity Fudo, 39/100,1963, woodblock, 30.5x22.8 cm. Signed K. Sasajima, sealed in kanji Sasa.

Hiratsuka, like Munakata, has been the subject of attention even in English-language materials, so there is not much need to discuss his role at length except to say that it has been an immense one. Since 1962, however, he has worked at his own pace and produces the occasional print of American scenery as the spirit moves him. During our early collecting period, when we had read the few books available, it was obvious that a collection of any significance would have to include his work.

Plate 5

Like all artists of genius, Hiratsuka makes his prints look effortless, but anyone who has ever tried to convey line, mass, tension, and emotion with only black and white will know the difficulties to be faced. Uchi Kongō Hyokunji (a temple name) demonstrates the artist's mastery as well as his devotion to Buddhism. The strong, assured lines make the weighty temple building appear to be a massiveness rooted in the earth, full of power and might. As the artist is the son of a shrine carpenter and the grandson of an architect, it is not surprising that he is especially skilled at reaching so unerringly to the heart of these imposing old structures.

Hashimoto Oldie was another near centenarian who passed away during the writing of this book. He studied seriously to be an artist during a regular four-year liberal arts college course, unlike so many of the early generation who were largely self-taught. He became an art teacher to earn his living, dabbling occasionally in printmaking for his own enjoyment. After retirement he still had several decades of print productivity. Gardens, castles, and other admired historic spots in Japan were his passion, possibly a result of his long friendship with Hiratsuka, who also loved old Japan. Hashimoto had taken one of Hiratsuka's printmaking courses in the early days and they became lifelong friends. To both of these artists we owe a debt for their recordings of historical and traditional Japanese scenes, which spurred us on to learn more about the history of the country.

Plate 6

Hashimoto's Osaka Castle, with its somewhat exaggerated scale of height of the moat walls and its clearly delineated stones, conveys the majesty of the stronghold and the esteem the artist felt for this remnant of the colorful samurai past. It is a quiet but masterful print.

Plate 7

Mabuchi Toru (who often spelled his given name Thoru), another of Hiratsuka's students, was also influenced toward things Japanese by his mentor. However, although he used the woodblock medium, his subjects were presented in a form resembling mosaic and pointillist imagery, inspired by his longtime interest in the art of Byzantium and of the French painter Seurat. His work From the Earth depicts five haniwa that somehow look rather decorative because of the Byzantine coloring and rhythmic design.

5. Hiratsuka Un'ichi (b. 1895). Titled on the reverse in Japanese Uchi Kongō Hyokunji (Inner Precinct of Hyokun Temple), unnumbered, undated, woodblock, 52.5x44 cm. Signed Un-ichi Hiratsuka, sealed on the image in kanji Un, printed in the right margin in kanji Hiratsuka Un'ichi.

6. Hashimoto Okiie (1899-1993). Titled in Japanese Taka-ishigaki to Tenshu (Osaka-jō) (High Stone Wall and Castle Stronghold [Osaka Castle]), 10/30, 1956, woodblock, 39.3x54.2 cm. Signed Okiie Hashimoto, sealed on the image Hashi, in the right margin in kanji Hashimoto Okiie saku (made by Hashimoto Okiie).

7. Mabuchi Toru (1920-94). Titled in Japanese Shutsu-do (From the Earth), 11 /50, 1961, woodblock, 56x41 cm. Signed on the image Toru Mabuchi, sealed on the image in kanji Toru.

As was the case with many who set out to collect the sōsaku-hanga prints, the works we were particularly fond of were all woodblocks. At that time those prints were the ones that held the most appeal probably because of subject matter. We did not even think particularly about their being woodblock prints; the themes were unfamiliar and captivating and that was their charm for us and for others. Perhaps that charm was a product of our initial response to the wonders of geisha, stylized gardens, Buddhist statues and temples, Shinto shrines, castles, and haniwa. All represented the eternal charisma of Japan, and these pioneer artists strongly felt an awareness of their roots in their chosen subject matter, even though they were leaning toward Western perspective and Modes of creating in executing their works.

About this time we parted, though only briefly, from the conventional woodblock and entered the inviting worlds of Mori Yoshitoshi's kappazuri (stencil prints), of Fukazawa Shiro's silk-screen prints, and of Ouchi Makoto's etchings. These artists also used traditional subjects like the Kabuki theater, legendary figures, folklore, or street markets, but the media employed were different and the subject matter was not quite so realistic. We embarked on an imaginative, thought-provoking journey not only because of the artists' creativity but also because we began to be aware of the different effects that could be achieved on paper with different printing methods. The subtle changes from realism to fanciful ideas and stories from the complicated repertoire of the Kabuki theater also intrigued us. Kabuki provided an inexhaustible source of inspiration for all three artists, and the addition of their prints contributed a new dimension to our collection.

After we met Mori Yoshitoshi, our collection grew by leaps and bounds. Mori seemed like a Japanese grandfather to us, and his passing at age 94 affected us deeply. Our various homes are filled with his works, which we number in the hundreds, and we never look at one of his masterpieces without recalling fondly the warmth and humor that he brought to every encounter. He was our Meiji-era connection and our oldest Japanese friend. During our long acquaintance he was responsible for much of the fun in our lives and enough earthy conversation to fill several books. Just as we became aware that our collection consisted only of woodblock prints he appeared on the scene as a stencil printmaker. Stencils had been used in Japan from time immemorial to produce designs for printing on textiles and Mori, in fact, had worked at this occupation for many years. He was more than 50 years old when he decided to carry this technique over to making works on paper.

Our friend Henry Steiner, a graphic designer whom we met in Hong Kong during our diplomatic posting there, had been much earlier enraptured by Mori's prints and suggested that we call on him in Tokyo when we were transferred, even providing a letter of introduction. We made the visit, unprepared for such a delight. But the greatest of all treats was to go to the Kabuki with Mori. This charming little man, whose entire life was bound up with the down-to-earth mores of Tokyo's shita-machi (the old downtown area), where his family had lived for generations, enjoyed with gusto the complex plots of the plays, appreciated the subtleties of the acting, and while not missing a beat of the story would sketch furiously all of the actors' dramatic poses (which he already knew by heart), while still finding time to clue us in on what was happening on stage. Later at his home and atelier, Mori would cut his stencils with breathtaking speed, defying not only the various laws of nature but also of common sense, since the very sharp tools that he used with such rapidity could easily have sliced off a finger.

Plate 8

His prints sometimes seem to border on caricature, conveying his innate spirit of fun. Kuruma-hiki, San Kyōdai (Three Brothers, Carriage Pullers [from the Kabuki play of that name]) is just the sort of humorous scene Mori loved. No amount of devilment was too much for him. He was a practical and canny son of old Edo, and loved wine, women, and song, especially women, whom he liked to draw in all their voluptuousness. Even at the age of 94 his head would turn if a curvaceous woman walked by, and his face would light up even more if she stopped to chat.

Another funster who smashed the stereotype that Japanese are staid and stolid, wear only dark-blue or gray suits, and have an inscrutable expression was Fulcazawa Shiro. He dressed like a Japanese gypsy might if there were any: a black velvet wide-brimmed hat with dangling red and yellow balls, holding in place a mane of wild white hair that had a tendency to blow in the breeze. He could always be found in an outrageously bright shirt and black leather pants, quite a novelty in the early 1970s, especially for a man of his age. Mary quite clearly remembers meeting him at the main intersection of the Ginza one day by prearranged appointment to attend a gallery opening. She noticed that they were given a wide berth by the various passersby.

Plate 9

Sharaku and I borrows from an early ukiyo-e master, again featuring a Kabuki-based theme. The purity of the silkscreen colors and the perfect technical execution were of interest to us in our shift to a third medium. Fukazawa's sense of composition and design was also unusual, with the print giving the viewer just a glimpse of a scene or a face and forcing one to fill in the blanks. It was hard to believe that such a traditional subject could be conveyed in such a Modern way.

The third of our Kabuki-inspired artists was also cast from a different mold. Perhaps it is an attribute of those artists who are totally enamored with the flamboyant Kabuki theater to carry its colorful gaiety over into their own lives. And we have often wondered, since so many Japanese artists tend to be a rather conventional lot, what the average Japanese thought of such marvels as Mori, Fukazawa, and Ouchi.

8. Mori Yoshitoshi (1898-1992). Titled on the reverse in Japanese Kuruma-hiki San Kyōdai (Rickshaw Pullers, Three Brothers), 3/50, 1971, stencil, 57.5x70.5 cm. Signed Yoshitoshi Mori, sealed on the image in kanji Yoshitoshi.

9. Fukazawa Shiro (1907-78). Sharaku and I, 32/35, 1976, silkscreen, 60x69 cm. Signed Shiro F.

10. Ouchi Makoto (1926-89). Titled in Japanese Jū, tided in English The Ten, 16/25, 1981, etching, 55x40 cm. Signed Ouchi M. Published by the Tolman Collection, Tokyo.

Plate 10

We found it remarkable that although ukiyo-e employed much Kabuki lore as subject matter, all of the latest prints featuring Kabuki were executed in other media. Ouchi Makoto's etchings were certainly a link with the past, but he felt that ukiyo-e were very flat. Wanting his work to be more three-dimensional, he often used cubes and cylinders as compositional devices. He created the print The Ten to celebrate our gallery's tenth anniversary, which coincided with his twenty-fifth anniversary as an artist. To commemorate that event we compiled a book about him. Ouchi was a diamond-in-the-rough, heart-of-gold, shirt-off-his-back type, but somewhat hard to take when he was in his cups, which he often was, a circumstance that eventually resulted in strained relations between us. Just as we could not love every print to the same degree, we realized we could not enjoy every artist's personality the same way either. And so we devoted our time to artists with whom we had much in common.

Looking back, we recall that our conversations came to be more and more concerned with our hobby. We wondered what people thought since it became increasingly obvious that we were devoting a considerable amount of time and money to this avocation. What to others was an occasional diversion was becoming our main interest. We were building a collection, having a great deal of fun, and finding it effortless to involve ourselves in such an absorbing occupation. Other bonuses were that we began to meet people who had a similar passion and we were learning in depth about the history and culture of Japan.

At this point we became a bit self-conscious about what others might think of the level of our collection. Although we know by now that even among people of independent spirit with supreme good taste and the intellectual means to defend their choices, there is a period when one considers "what others might think." Whether this is expressed verbally or not does not matter. We notice that people do it in our gallery even today. After all these years we can recognize the look of uncertainty and we know the reason. We had it once too.

The notion of creating a collection and making it a focal point in our lives was still a bit hazy, so the matter of justifying our purchases still lurked in the background, encouraging us to turn for a moment to subjects that seemed easy to rationalize. We found that cats were mostly a "safe" item. They were then and they are now a subject that finds a ready audience among cat-o-philes. We have clients who will buy any composition featuring a cat; everyone is familiar with them and even those who do not particularly like real cats find they can tolerate them in art. Compositions with cats can thus be given as presents, along with that other "safe" subject— trees. Two artists have become famous mainly for using only these objects in their woodblock prints.

Plate 11

Plate 12

Long Tail Cat by Inagaki Tomoo and Mist by Hoshi Joichi have universal appeal, and like so many other Japanese printmakers, both artists found their major themes early in their print careers and spent the rest of their lives refining them. Inagaki's cat, with its glittering yellow eyes and insouciantly curled tail, recalls any particularly self-contained cat one may have encountered, with the emphasis on feline sensuality. Hoshi's trees in the mist are clearly recognizable elements, yet the intriguing fog invites one's mind to wander into the unknowable world beyond realism. Hoshi's earlier prints concentrated on star constellations but it is his trees that have made him famous. We bought these prints primarily not because they were by our favorite artists but because they were first praised and collected by others.

Hoshi was the man of the hour in those days, and his prints seemed to be everywhere. It was even said, as a sort of selling point, that Henry Kissinger had bought a few during a trip to Tokyo. As young, rising art dealers we joked about how unusual it was that people who were not so interested in what we had to say about foreign affairs could take Kissinger's purchase as the acme of what was desirable in the Modern print world. But, of course, a point was made: many people liked to own a Hoshi print just because Kissinger had one.

Needless to say, Inagaki and Hoshi are celebrated printmakers so they do not need our personal blessing on their work. But we were not so drawn to their prints as to others; we bought them because others recommended them and it seemed the thing to do at the time.