Oh, you beautiful doll, you great big beautiful doll

Oh, you beautiful doll… is the title of a song from July 1911. The music was written by Seymour Brown and the lyrics were by Nat D. Ayer.
These two young men were taking a break out side of a vaudeville theater in St. Louis when an attractive young lady walked by. According to one source the theater’s electrician said: “Say! There’s some beautiful doll! I’d like to get my limbs ’round her!” Within hours the song was finished, but it took a few years before it became a smash success.

I chose those lyrics to title this post because they seem so appropriate to the story of Hidari Jingorō, one of Japanese most famous sculptors. As the story goes, Jingorō once saw a particularly gorgeous woman who was way out of his league. Unable to have her for himself – he was said to have been homely in the extreme if not downright ugly – he carved a life-sized version. But a mock up is not exactly satisfactory when it comes to lust. So, as the legend goes Jingorō was able to bring her to life, but naturally there was a hitch. Isn’t that always the case? But more about him later.

Jingorō may be the impetus for this post, but a larger issue exists here: The breathe of life. What is it? How does it come about? Will we ever know? Most, if not all,  cultures have puzzled over this miracle and each has come up with it’s own explanation. I try to touch on a few of these.

Hidari Jingorō (左 甚五郎) and his Kyōto doll

To believe any of the numerous stories about life-giving one must have (blind) beliefs and/or faith – not to mention a modicum of gullibility. Perhaps the most famous account from Japan would focus on Hidari Jingorō (ca. 1596-1644), one of Japan’s most famous sculptors – a real life – now long dead – mortal.

However, before we start going into what little we know about Jingorō – a man Basil Hall Chamberlain described in 1899 as “Japan’s greatest sculptor” – lets take a moment to look at the historical role of the sculptor in both the East and the West. Almost everyone with a modicum of education in the West knows the name of Michelangelo (ミケランジェロ) no matter how they pronounce it.  Those with greater interests in the arts can tell us who Phidias (ペイディアス) and Praxiteles (プラクシテレス) were, but no one – at least I don’t think anyone – can name any of the sculptors from ancient Babylon or at Thebes.  And even if they could name one or two, so what?  It wasn’t until the Renaissance in Europe that the names of individual sculptors became important again after a gap of about 2,000 years. Gothic cathedrals are just as impressive with or without names. For ages sculpture was viewed strictly as craft subordinate to a greater whole or good . The same was not the case in the East. Just try to name 7 famous Japanese sculptors before the time of Jingorō. Name just one. I dare you. Bet you can’t do it. Not that there aren’t thousands of great images carved or cast by armies of sincere and sensitive craftsmen – we just don’t know their names. The great Buddhas of Bamiyan which were stupidly and foolishly destroyed by the Taliban in 2001 were the creation of nameless but devoted and dedicated workers. Their destruction was merely a taste of what was to come. Was their god served by this act? [That question is rhetorical from my point of view.] But… I have strayed from my point: Before Jingorō one would be hard pressed to name a single sculptor from India, China or Japan and not a hell of a lot since. The floodgates opened in the West and haven’t closed since Donatello gave us his androgynous David. The same can not be said of the East although the opening of Japan and globalization has gone a long way in correcting this oversight. What started as a trickle in the 19th century has become a… today.

In 1902 a book about Japanese artist was published by Yamanaka and Co. In their biography of Hidari Jingorō they say that he lived in  Fushimi (伏見), near Kyōto, where Hideyoshi built his famous castle. Jingorō was as humble in his origins as he was skilled as a sculptor. One day he “…fell in love with a lady, but he was too poor even to pay his respects to her.” This clearly is one of history’s great euphemism considering that she was a courtesan, a prostitute. “One day, however, when walking along a street he met the object of his love, and immediately followed her. The lady dropped her mirror by chance, which she had kept between the folds of her sash. This Jingorō picked up and hastened home. He at once undertook to carve her image, and when it was done he put the mirror in the sash worn by the image and lo! the image began to move, talk with the sculptor and even confided her love to him.”

In Terry’s Japanese Empire: Including Korea and Formosa (etc.) from 1914 there is a brief biography of Jingorō in footnote 1 on page 259: “Hidari Jingorō (1594-1634) was the son of Itami Masatoshi, and a samurai in the service of the Ashikaga. His trade was that of a carpenter, but he early developed a talent for carving wood, and he rose to become one of the most celebrated sculptors in Japan.”

Below is Toshihide’s 1898 version of Jingorō admiring his creation.

And yet another version of the doll story: Jingorō was able to build an operating automaton of the woman he was smitten with. She could walk, talk and dance, but her movements and words were always those of her creator until one time when he placed a mirror before her and she truly comes to life. His conclusion: “…the object upon which all feminine instincts of the fair sect are concentrated is a mirror.” Remove the mirror and she is an automaton. Return the mirror and she becomes a woman again. Another source said that the living woman who Jingorō doted on had looked in her mirror so many time that when the sculptor found it lying in the street it held the essence of the beauty’s soul and that is what brought the carving to life.

Robert Long in his Inside the Chrysanthemum: New Japanese Fables tells the story of Jingorō and another mirror. Bemoaning his own looks one of the sculptor’s students suggested he make a mirror and then have a Shinto priest bless it a thousand times. If this is done the viewer will be a thousand times better  looking when he views his own countenance. Jingorō did this and he looked great. So he rushed out to where the gorgeous beauty would walking by and he presented himself to her when she appeared. She took one look at him, winced and turned away. Jingorō was furious but his student pointed out that the mirror would only make him look better to himself and not to others. [ Since I don't own a copy of this book I have no idea if Long is creating the new fables himself or if these are based on something older. I have read the part about blessing a mirror before, but don't recall where.]

Kuniyoshi and Hidari Jingorō:

Kuniyoshi created a particularly striking portrayal of Jingorō in his studio. The sculptor is seated on the ground, head turned away from us and from what he is doing, mostly with his back to us and wearing a remarkably striking robe portraying Emma-O, the overlord of deceased souls, and other scenes and figures from Hell. It is this robe which I find particularly curious. It must have existed and have been one of Kuniyoshi’s favorite studio props because it appears in at least one other print by him which is thought to be a self-portrait and in a colored drawing of him by his student Yoshitoshi. Even more curious must be the layers of meaning here. Emma-O who sits in judgment over lives of men is portrayed on a robe of a sculptor who was believed to have the power to bring his own work to life. Perhaps Kuniyoshi was actually his own model for Jingorō. You will see what I mean when I show you the so-called self-portrait further down this page. But for now here is a detail of the triptych I am talking about showing the robe and the sculptor in all their glory.

Now, here is the full triptych with each of the sculpted figures looking very much alive. [I doctored this image by giving it a light green ground in the hope that it would be more readable.]

Below is a detail from a print identified as a Kuniyoshi self-portrait from ca. 1839 and guess what… he’s wearing the same ‘damned’ robe or something awfully close to it.

Other works by or attributed to Hidari Jingorō:

Some say the sleeping cat (nemuri neko/眠猫) at Tōshōgū (東照宮) was placed there to frighten off mice because the grave of Ieyasu lies nearby and should remain undisturbed. There is another sculpture elsewhere of a cat with its eyes open.  Attributed to Jingorō it si said to be so life-like that when some living cats see it they arch their backs, their fur bristling and they hiss and spit at in fear (or aggression). How the hell should I know which? I don’t speak cat.

One Western writer for Scribner’s Magazine wrote in 1921 “…the ’sleeping cat’ of Hidari Jingoro… makes you drowsy to look at it.” Hyperbole? I look at my sleeping cats all the time and think “Now, maybe, I’ll get some work done.” My cats, by the way, are not the aloof kind. They are needy, neurotic and always want to play, be fed or petted. Sleeping cats is Jerry-time. (Below is a picture of Sticky on the left and TJer on the right.)

This ability to catch the absolute or true nature of an object is a favorite topic among art historians. Some have argued that the figures painted by Giotto (ジョット) were so lifelike that his contemporaries thought they were looking at the real thing. Somewhat like the way we view photographs today.  Or, maybe even more realistic. Pliny (プリニウス) tells us that Alexander the Great (アレクサンダー大王) sought out Apelles (アペレス) to paint his portrait. While sitting for the greatest artist of his age Alexander expostulated on the nature of art and Apelles told him to shut up because even the young men grinding the pigments in his studio were laughing at him. Although angered – my inference – Alexander nevertheless deferred. One story – with many variant versions – says that the youthful Macedonian king asked Apelles paint a portrait of him astride his great steed, Bucephalus. When finished Alexander was pleased with his own likeness, but not that of his horse until a mare walked by, saw the painting and neighed at it at which the painter noted that the mare was a better judge of art than Alexander was.

Several sources say that the carving of the elephants is based on a painting by Kano Tan’yu (狩野探幽 1602-74). They also all note that the believe the legs are all wrong, i.e., going the wrong way. Considering that there were no live elephants to work from I think they did pretty damn well.

How gauche!

Have you ever been in a crowded movie theater where everyone, or almost everyone, is intensely absorbed in a scene when someone starts laughing – when no one else is? Well, that may have been me. What most people take seriously in fictionalized settings I often find ironic or absurd. I am sure my neighbors are thinking that my reaction is terribly inappropriate. (That is one reason I don’t attend many movies.) Even when the scenes are comedic I tend to laugh at the orphaned lines when no one else does.

Hidari (左) means left because this sculptor was left-handed. In French the word for left is gauche. In 1471 the French began to replace the more commonly used sénestre for left with gauche. Sénestre, of course, was derived from the Latin sinister. Sinister?! According to Shipley “Sun worshipers, at morning prayer in thanks for rebirth of light, had south on the dexter, right-hand side; hence dext(e)rous. Opposed is the sinister…” Followers of the sinister, by implication, would be worshipers of the dark. While Jingorō may not have been an ancient Roman or even French is there any question why people would come to believe that such an incredibly gifted (left-handed) sculptor would have supernatural powers – powers which could bring his work to life?

On another level there is reason to think of Jingorō’s work as gauche. To the Minimalist everything Baroque art is a nightmare: It is riotous in color, movement, foreshortening – hence, antithetical to everything quiet and contemplative and thus totally gauche. Jingorō was clearly not a Zen artist working for Zen masters. His patrons wanted color and form galore. His best known works are found in buildings devoted to the glorification of Tokugawa Ieyasu at Nikko. One author in 2000 referred to this astonishing pieces as “rather florid”. Below we have posted two images to make our point. The first one is a detail of the ceiling of in the Schloss Wurzach. The photo was taken by Andreas Praefcke and posted on the web at commons.wikimedia.org. The second one, taken by Fg2 and posted at the same place,  is a detail of the Yomeimon Gate at Nikko – which in not ascribed to Jingorō, but is definitely part of the whole he participated in.  I think they make the point clearly.

Fact or Fiction? 1a) There was an article published in 1914 which says “Among these carvings are the best works of the greatest artist, Hidari Jingoro, of whom it is said that when his enemy out of jealousy cut off his right hand, he immediately learned to carve as well with his left.” Give me a break. Is that bull or the straight poop? I think it’s bull. 1b) Another version: In Basil Hall Chamberlain’s Things Japanese the author says that after the sculptor created his living doll they were living together happily until… until… Jingorō’s lord was told by his enemies that he must sacrifice his daughter.  Hearing this Jingorō scarified his creation by lopping off her head. He then delivered the ‘corpse’ to the enemies of master and they were fooled. However, someone failed to tell all of the lord’s servants one of whom believed that the sculptor had actually killed his master’s daughter. In revenge he cut off Jingorō’s right hand making him the  ‘hidari’ we all know and love today. 2) In 1883 Daniel Pidgeon in his An Engineer’s Holiday relates that “Among the many artists who helped to decorate Nikko was a certain Hidari Jingoro, the Pygmalion of Japan, who once painted the picture of a lady so surpassingly beautiful that he fell in love with his own work. By the kindness of the gods, whom he implored to that effect, the canvas came to life, married the artist and lived happily with him ever after – of course. It was curious to light on this old myth in the far East.” 3) The two story Yomei-mon gate (陽明門) at Tōshōgū is said to have over 500 elaborated carved figures on it. Some credit Jingorō’s hand in its decoration. It is said to be so absorbing that it has been nicknamed Higurashi-mon (日暮の門) or the sunset gate because people would spend the whole day just looking at its parts until it gets too dark. 4) The dragons of the Kara-mon (唐門) at Tōshōgū attributed to Jingorō are said to be so realistic that they are believed to slip away at night to drink from Shinobazu Pond. 5) Jingorō has often been referred to as “the Japanese Phidias”. 6) Jingorō “…once sculpted a horse that took his status so seriously to heart that he occasionally left his pedestal for the purpose of grazing in the fields nearby…” 7) Alan Scott Pate in his book on Japanese dolls tells the story about Jingorō that when he needed extra help in his workshop/studio he would carve assistants to help him. Whenever a project would be finished he would take these carved helpers and throw them into a river where they would be transformed into kappa – ugly, nasty creatures. #8) The sculptor is credited with creating the “singing floors” of the Chion-in (知恩院) in Kyōto which make the sound of a nightingale (uguisu 鴬) when you walk on them. 9) At the Chion-in Temple the abbot was performing a dedication ceremony when it began to rain. A fox god appeared and held an umbrella over the abbot until the ceremony was finished. The umbrella had been left there by Jingorō who died four years before. From then on the umbrella was referred to as Hidari Jingorō no wasure-gasa. 10) There is a Hidari Jingorō Museum (左 甚五郎美術館) in Takamatsu (高松) on Shikoku Island. In New Japan Solo the authors say “The museum is housed in a three-story tan stucco building with two white balconies. This small museum has a fine collection of works…” by the sculptor. They continue: “Recommended for art history majors only.” Not that is not exactly what I would call a ringing endorsement. 11) Frank Brinkley in 1902 related a story where one of the sculptor’s friends urged him to raise himself out of poverty to which Jingorō replied: “Pleasure lies hidden in poverty. Does not the plum blossom in snow?”

For A Little Cultural Balance and Some Bizarre Thinking

Hidari Jingorō may have been Japan’s greatest wood sculptor ever, but isn’t it odd that he died in 1644 and England’s greatest wood carver, Grinling Gibbons (グリンリング・ギボンズ), was born just4 years later? For those of you out there who believe in reincarnation – and there are plenty of you – this is more than a coincidence. I, of course, don’t buy it.  However, just for contrast I am posting a detailed of image of a Gibbons wood carving found at Hampton Court and placed on the web by Camster2 at commons.wikimedia.org. If Jingorō and Gibbons are not the same spirit at least they are damned close. Sort of like Braque and Picasso in their Cubist period, but not, eh?

The Second Commandment

In The New English Bible with the Apocrypha published by both the Oxford and Cambridge University presses in 1970 it says in Exodus 20:4 “You shall not make a carved image for yourself nor a likeness of anything in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters under the earth.” Well, there you have it. It couldn’t be plainer. No images, no likeness, no photographs, no Avatars created from pixels. Nothing. Nada. It is right there in Mosaic Law. Only God is the creator or Creator.

Above is a relief from a synagogue in Bucharest posted on the Internet at wikimedia.org by Joe Mabel.  Clearly, even here, it does not follow the strictures of the Second Commandment as quoted above. Perhaps there is something in the nature of humanity which overrides such strictures. For every literalist adherent to the scriptures there is at least one (to a thousand or more) individuals who look at it more loosely, more symbolically, more metaphorically – or don’t think about it all.

In I Kings 10:18-20 there is a description of Solomon’s throne “…of ivory and overlaid… with fine gold. Six steps led up to the throne; at he back of the throne there was the head of a calf. There were arms on each side of the seat, with a lion standing beside each of them, and twelve lions stood on six steps, one at either end of each step. Nothing like it had ever been made for any monarch.”

A question for you: Why were there no world famous Jewish artists prior to the 20th century? First off, I want you to know that I have no answer to this question, but I do have some suggestions. The Second Commandment might be one reason. A second barrier might have been the Diaspora itself and the dispersion of the the Jews over centuries accompanied by numerous persecutions and expulsions. A third possibility might have been due to the segregation and isolation of Jews from the rest of the European communities whether it was in the shtetls of in the east or the ghettos in the west. A fourth explanation might lie in the segregated nature of these Jewish communities where scholarship, i.e., Talmudic studies, and commerce may have played a more significant role than that of the creation of fine art imagery. Somehow survival may have come to vaguely mirror Maslow’s hierarchy of needs where artistic creativity was not at the top of their agenda. Even if there was a young  Jewish male who wanted to study with a great non-Jewish master the idea was unthinkable.  Rembrandt might paint portraits of Jews, but he was far less than likely to have one as an apprentice. (“Far less” is a gross understatement.) The same would have been true of Rubens or any other great master – especially considering how much of their time and efforts were involved in the production of religious art.

In 1919 Thorstein Veblen (ソースティン.ベブレン) wrote an essay, The Intellectual Pre-eminence of Jews in Modern Europe, in which he argued against the Zionist drive to establish a homeland in the Middle East. There was nothing anti-Semitic about Veblen’s views. In fact, there was probably no one who admired more the contributions the Jews had made since they began their recent and emerging integration into European society. Veblen argued that Jews played a positive and disproportionate role in the growth of scientific and scholarly work and that the Zionist movement would deprive everyone of a better things to come. He was not anti-Zionist at all and was even sympathetic with their goals, but he felt that in the end run the Jews could add more to human advancement if woven into the fabric of Western society instead of isolated from it.

Veblen dealt mainly with social and economic theories and not with aesthetics and the arts. Perhaps that is why he failed to see the role the Jews would play in those areas in the decades to come. Without getting into any extraneous arguments I would propose that Marc Chagall was the best know Jewish artist of the 20th century. Veblen, who died in 1929, would hardly be expected to know about Chagall, one of the artists who were breaking the mold. That is what makes the image posted below so ironic. It is a picture of a stained glass window in All Saint’s Church in Tudeley, Kent in which the crucifixion of Jesus is portrayed by a modern Jewish artist. What could be more ecumenical and yet what could be further from a strict interpretation of the Second Commandment? (This image was posted at commons.wikimedia.org by Klaus D. Peter of Wiehl, Germany.)

The Golem

Clearly by the 17th century the concept of creation was being played with fast and loose in Jewish folklore. According to Chayim Bloch the Jews of Prague were saved by the Golem (גולם) which was fashioned out of clay and brought to life through the wondrous workings of Rabbi Loew who understood the mystical workings of the Kabbalah.  In 1808 Jacob Grimm wrote an account of Polish Jews and their Golem creations. After modeling a small figure out of clay or lime they would say a prayer over it and it would come to life. On its forehead was written the word for Truth/God. The Golem was used as a servant and everyday it would grow larger. If it threatened to grow too large the first part of the inscription could be erased leaving only the characters which meant ‘death’. At this it would crumble back into non-existence. One man let his Golem grow too large and ordered it to remove his boots. When the Golem bent down the man erased the first letters and the creature collapsed. But since it had grown so large that when it did collapse it buried its master and he died with it. The modern world came to know one version of the story through the 1914 novel The Golem by Gustav Meyrink.

As the legend goes Rabbi Loew was “…counselled ‘from Heaven’ to make the Golem.” Counseling took the form of dreams and as such would supply a clear dispensation for ignoring the original commandment. Only God could overrule his original order through the vehicle of the rabbi.The rabbi enlisted the help of his son-in-law and one of his pupil. They performed certain rituals including a purifying bath. Afterwards they went to the bank of the Moldau and formed a figure out of clay which had all of the essential body parts. In other words, on the surface, it was anatomically correct. Each of them performed their mystical roles. The first one represented fire and the Golem turned bright red. The second was water and the creature grew hair. And then the rabbi, who represented air, recited – with the help of his assistants – the sacred words taken from the book of Genesis. But before they performed this final act he placed a piece of parchment with the name of God on it in the Golem’s mouth. Then they all said: “And he breathed into his nostrils  the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” With this the Golem opened his eyes and looked astonished. When the rabbi ordered him to stand up the creature did so. They dressed him and now he had everything except the power of speech.

In every way the Golem was to obey the rabbi’s wishes, but first and foremost he was to protect the Jews against unjustified assaults. Clearly the Golem, named Joseph to continue the deception, understood his orders, but he was unable to distinguish between what was literal and what was nuanced. Metaphors and similes were way beyond him. When asked to fetch water to fill two barrels Joseph didn’t stop until ordered to and the entire courtyard had been flooded. When sent on dangerous missions the rabbi would supply the Golem with an amulet which would make him invisible. Sometimes he was dressed like a Christian worker so he could pass easily through their crowds and spy on their anti-Semitic plots. If he caught a Christian carrying around a dead baby which he was going to plant in a Jewish home as evidence of the so-call blood lust of the Jews the Golem would drag the man off with his horrific evidence to the police, make himself understood through gestures and then, using the magical amulet, disappear. [A personal note: While the Golem had this incredible skill in making himself understood I suck at charades.]

In many of the stories the Golem eventually goes mad and is more of a threat than a gift. It dies, but never quite completely and if necessary can be resurrected. [It is funny how certain themes repeat themselves in different settings.]

The Koran: My ignorance of Islam surpasses that of my ignorance of nearly all other religions. That said, no matter what I have to say here can easily be disputed. I know that.  However, as you may have realized by now ignorance has never been a deterrent in my pursuit of greater ignorance.

Much has been made of the use of images in Islam or the prohibition of same. The sayings of the Prophet and the Koran laid the ground rules. “…the wish to imitate the Creator’s work by imitating the form of living beings, and particularly the form of man, is irreverent and even blasphemous. This last injunction has not always and everywhere been observed, since it concerns more the intention than the deed: in the Persian and Indian world especially, it was argued that an image which does not claim to imitate the real, being but is no more than an allusion to it, is allowed. This is one of the reasons for the non-illusive style of Persian miniatures, that is to say, the absence in them of shadows and perspective. No mosque, however, has ever been decorated with anthropomorphic images.” Since many Muslims, especially those of a more fundamentalist mind-set, think that all portrayals of living creatures should be taboo. Basically they believe that on Judgement Day the creator of all such images will be called upon to breathe life into their works or suffer eternal damnation.

It is said that angels will not enter the house of a man with images or a dog or both. Below is an image of the upper reaches of the Sehzade mosque in Istanbul. It was posted at commons.wikimedia.org by Zagomar. As you can see there is no chorus of angels or putti or hand of God reaching out to a freshly created Adam. All is elegant design with a few well placed bits of script.

Lazarus, Prometheus, Frankenstein, Ted Williams and vermicelli

Detail from the Raising of Lazurus by Rembrandt

In 1632 Rembrandt etched another version of Jesus performing the miracle of bringing Lazarus back from the dead.  As Jesus approached Bethany Martha, Lazarus’ sister, came out to meet him. Her brother had already been dead for four days and she said to Jesus: “If you had been here, sir, my brother would not have died.” To this Jesus responded with “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said she realized that her brother would rise again during the final judgment, but Jesus reassured her saying “I am the resurrection and I am that life. If a man has faith in me, even though he die, he shall come to life…” When they reached the tomb where the man was interred Jesus had the stone removed which covered the front of the cave. After Jesus looked upon the corpse he gave thanks to his Father and “raised his voice in a great cry: ‘Lazarus, come forth.’ The dead man came out…” The story is told in John 11: 1-44.

In Luke 16 Lazurus is beggar with open sores who begs for food at the house of a wealthy man. His uffering is ignored by the rich man, but when Lazurus dies his soul is carried to heaven by the angels. When the rich man dies his soul ends up in the other place where he will sizzle for all of eternity. The original Hebrew for Lazarus means ‘God will help’ or ‘has helped’. The word ‘leper’ comes from the Greek for scaly.

Isolation and hoped for redemption: In Michel Foucault’s remarkable book Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason the first chapter is entitled “Stultifer Navis”. It begins with a discussion of the lazar houses in medieval Europe. Lazar is synonymous for leper and their houses were the establishments where these outcasts were isolated from the rest of society. As leprosy slowly died outin Europe a huge number of buildings and institutions were left vacant. What was to be done with them? At first they became juvie detention halls, but in time they were transformed into lunatic asylums which naturally housed a large criminal population too.The insane had become the new lazars or lepers.

For those of you who don’t read Latin Foucault’s “Stultifer Navis” translates as ‘Ship of Fools’.

Boris Karloff as Frankenstein

Mary Shelley in her introduction to her Frankenstein or the Modern Prometheus wrote about the origin of this tale: “When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw – with shut eyes, but with acute mental vision, – I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world.” The artist would run away hoping that the spark which gave it life would fade away and once more it “…would subside into dead matter.” But the artis’st hopes would be dashed when would waken and find the creature standing at the end of his bed staring at him. That image alone frightened Shelley and she decided to share it frightening others.

This creature was brought to life through alchemy. Victor Frankenstein relates a story of being 13 years old,  stuck indoors on a rainy day while on vacation and bored out of his mind. So, he picked up a book about Cornelius Agrippa. After showing it to his father his father told him “…do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.” Naturally that made him want to read it even more and that led him to the other superstars of alchemy – Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. At the end of the second chapter Victor laments that the path he took “…eventually decreed my utter and terrible destruction.”

Ted Williams when still alive. This photo was placed on the web by Jim Hansen at wikimedia.org.

Then there is the tragic, almost farcical, events which followed Williams death on July 5, 2002. Ted Williams (テッド・ウイリアムズ) was a genuine American hero and his story is well-known – including those which followed his death at the age of 83. One of his sons said that his father wanted his head cryogenically preserved in the hope of eventual revival. This led to a bitter family dispute between the cremation side and the cryogenic (クライオジーニクス) or freezing  faction. Legal action was taken, but it was too late because there were already people in Scottsdale, Arizona (スコッツデール.アリゾナ) who said they could dip the head in liquid nitrogen and so it was done.

Now I don’t know about you, but I consider such beliefs loony tunes. However, my empathetic side tells me that no matter how crazy this idea seems I do understand their desire for something a little more hopeful than just letting a person expire and that being that. Who can account for different belief systems? I can’t. Ted Williams had a younger brother, Danny, who died of leukemia at the age of 39. William’s son, John-Henry, the one who froze his dad’s head in 2002, died of the same disease on March 6, 2004 at the age of 35. Is there any wonder about why members of the Williams family and so many others always want keep hope alive in the face of so much suffering? (John-Henry was supposed to have been frozen too so that he could eventually be reunited with his dad, but he wasn’t. It doesn’t get a lot sadder than that on so many different levels.) And recently, in 2008,  a fellow who worked for the cryogenics firm in Arizona published a book stating that Williams frozen head was physically abused. Even this brought on new lawsuits.

When I was child I watched any number of science fiction movies which either had a ‘living brain’ in a glass contraption wired to keep it alive and sentient. Sometimes there were whole heads which were preserved and functioning. And what about those brain or head transplants. However, I have tell that putting my brain in a much sexier and better looking body probably wouldn’t make a lot of difference – at least where the ladies are concerned. Draw you own conclusions. Then there is the case of Einstein’s brain which supposedly was preserved in formaldehyde. Good grief Charlie Brown! What were they thinking? Formaldehyde? One more point: Who will ever forget the head of Vincent Price on the body of a fly which someone was trying to swat? “Help me! Help me!” Not I. Wish I could.

Einstein (アインスタイン) shown above the yummy vermicelli.

Vermicelli (バーミセリ) means little worms in Italian

Mary Shelley (メアリー・シェリー) in her introduction to Frankenstein (フランケンシュタイン) recounts a conversation between Byron and her husband. At that time there was a story going around  about Erasmus Darwin (エラスムス.ダーウイン) which Darwin never claimed to be true. But fantastic rumors are fantastic rumors and often generally more interesting than the truth. According to Shelley:

Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley,
to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these,
various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the
nature of the principal of life, and whether there was any probability of
its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments
of Dr. Darwin… who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till by some
extraordinary means it began to move with voluntary motion.

Shelley mused that if a scientist could bring life to a piece of pasta then surely a corpse might be ‘galvanized’ back to life. So, ever inquisitive, I did a search on Erasmus Darwin and vermicelli and guess what, he did mention that tasty starch at least once: “If the orchis [a fleshy tuber] could… [be] scalded in boiling water, and the peel rubbed off,  it… might become a nutritive article of diet, like sago and vermicelli, if it could be propagated at less expence.” This quote comes from his Phytologia; or the Philosophy of Agriculture and Gardening. With the Theory of Draining Morasses and with an Improved Construction of the Drill Plough. Published in 1800.

Other topics I had hoped to cover in this post, but never got to: Mimesis and Animation; Christian iconoclasts;  Pygmalion and Galatea; Lewis Carroll and Tolkien; Rochisin and the niō; and Pinocchio, Babes in Toyland and Woody. Maybe on another day.

For more information about Japanese prints and culture please visit our other web site at http://www.printsofjapan.com/.

Also, I don’t know if you are interested on February 5 and 7, 2010 I expanded my entry on oshidori, i.e., mandarin ducks  considerably. Go to that post to see what is new if you like.

Skeletons, skull and bones in Japanese Art and elsewhere – Part Two

When East met West – anatomically speaking

In 1771 a nameless, female criminal was executed. She earned, the hard way, the dubious honor of benefitting the exchange of ideas between the West and Japan and changing perceptions forever. Her contribution was not voluntary. Three men interested in the elements of Dutch medicine bribed the executioner to let them view her dissection. One of them was Sugita Gempaku (杉田玄白: 1733-1817) who happened to have access to a Dutch translation (1734) of an original German publication called the Anatomische Tabellen (人体解剖図表: 1722) by Johann Adam Kulmus (ヨハン. アダム.クルムス: 1689-1745). Gempaku was so impressed by the books accuracy that the next day he and his colleagues set about translating this work into Japanese. The result was the Kaitai Shinsho (解体新書: 1774) or ‘New Book of Anatomy’ sparked a whole new look at the European scientific method and an entirely new look at traditional Japanese medicine. The illustration below is from that translated copy.

Gempaku warned his readers that they would have to change their way of looking at things they thought they already knew. He called it “changing one’s outlook” (memboku o aratemeru). His revelations that day started a revolution in medicine and respect for Western scholarship. Of course, there had been dissections in the past but Gempaku believed that earlier Chinese and Japanese physicians had seen what they wanted to see to confirm their beliefs and not the true nature of things. He referred to his predecessors as being “hardened by chronic misconceptions”. According to Shigehisa Kuriyama in his essay “Between Mind and Eye: Japanese Anatomy in the Eighteenth Century” Gempaku felt that a physicians inability to see the truth was not just foggy thinking based on centuries of misconceptions, but that it was downright delusional and pathological in its resistance. There had been accounts of dissections from as early as the Han dynasty in China (206 B.C. to 220 A.D.), but there wasn’t a printed graphic to work from until the Sung dynasty almost a thousand years later. However, it wasn’t until the mid-14th century that such diagrams began to appear in Japan due to the work of the monk-physician Kajiwara Shōzen (梶原性全: 1266-1337). It took another four centuries before Japanese scholars began to seriously question the work handed down since the time of the Sung.

Cats have skulls and sometimes skulls have cats – at least in Japan

Kuniyoshi is undeniably a genius. I have said this elsewhere: If artistic ideas were tantamount to words Kuniyoshi would have the largest vocabulary of any artist I have ever known of – anywhere – anywhere in the world. Does that make him the best artist ever? No. But considering his remarkable skills he must be counted among the greatest. Besides, ‘best’ is a subjective word and from my perspective there is no ‘best,’ but many qualify.

Below is a prime example of Kuniyoshi’s fertile imagination. I have isolated one element of a print by him which shows skulls composed of the bodies of cats. Below that is the my adulterated version of the original print so you can better focus on the skulls themselves. But also, below that, are two other details from another robe which he is wearing and it too is decorated with skulls. Only this time the skulls are made up of lotus plants.

And then there is the sandal skull… Recently someone sent me a link to a web site that purported to show a face of Christ in a woodgrain product being sold by a major retailer. However, I thought the image had been doctored to make it look like Jesus and wasn’t very convincing. But I digress… as usual. Below is an enlargement of the sandal in the Kuniyoshi print I have been discussing and there is no mistaking the artist’s intent or that he meant to use a woodgrain to show it.

Then there is Kuniyoshi’s cats of cats

Kuniyoshi and his skull of gourds

I suppose that Kuniyoshi’s images shown below could give new meaning to the phrase ’out of one’s gourd.’ But, of course, that is a Western phrase and odds are that there is no Japanese 19th century equivalent. On the other hand, after thinking about this some more, there probably is/was an appropriate Japanese phrase to fit such moments. If, and only if, the term ‘out of one’s gourd’ or ‘off one’s gourd’ has anything to do with drinking to excess an alcoholic beverage out of a gourd and becoming falling-down-slobbering-stupid-drunk how could the Japanese not have an expression to suit that condition?

The danse macabre

There is a wonderful description of a storm by Thomas Hardy’s (トマス・ハーディ: 1840-1928) in his novel Far From the Madding Crowd (遥か群衆を離れて): “Heaven opened then, indeed. The flash was almost too novel for its for its inexpressably dangerous nature to be at once realized, and they could only comprehend the magnificance of its beauty. It sprang from east, west, north, south. It was a perfect dance of death. The forms of skeletons appeared in the air, shaped with blue fire for bones – dancing, leaping, striding, racing around, and mingling altogether in unparalled confusion.” Hardy continues by describing a bolt of lightning striking Gabriel who is holding Bathsheba’s arm: “In the meantime one of the grisly forms had alighted upon the point of Gabriel’s rod, to run invisibly down it, down the chain and into the earth. Gabriel was almost blinded, and he could feel Bathsheba’s warm arm tremble in his hand – a sensation novel and thrilling enough; but love, life, everything human seemed small and trifling in such close juxtaposition with an infuriated universe.”

Woodcut from the ‘Dance of Death’ series by Hans
Holbein (ハンス.ホルバイン: 1497-1543) the Younger .

In the 18th century Pierre Maupertuis (モーペルチュイ: 1698-1759), one of history’s great polymaths, on a visit to the ossuary at Toulouse was asked why the skeletons seemed to be laughing. His response, in French of course, was that they were laughing at us, the living. The skeleton drummer shown above is clearly enjoying himself. Not only does he have a smile on his face, a wicked grin you might say, but he’s got ears too. Hmmm? Odd isn’t it. Near his bony left foot is death’s hourglass with its inexorable sands or as Pink Floyd so succintly put it: “Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.”

By the mid-15th century the Dance of Death was ubiquitous in Europe. Why not? One hundred years ealier the Black Death (黒死病) had ravaged the populations from the sweltering, southern tip of Italy to the frigid Scandanavian region. No one was immune. In The Gender of Death: A Cultural History in Art and Literature the author, Karl Guthke, states that within the Christian world bracketed from the Fall to Last Judgement “…Death is a terrifying presence. Inexorably he approaches representatives of all estates and classes, hauling them out of life after a brief dialogue or dispute, without ever granting a reprieve.” Guthke also notes that “Gender specific attributes such as a drum often confirm [that Death] is a male image.”

Nathanile Hawthorne (ナサニエル・ホーソーン: 1804-64) in his Twice Told Tales (二度語られた物語) relates the story of a woman who has been widowed three times and is determined to try again. One of her deceased husband’s had actually been a lot younger. But the woman was undaunted and determined to stay young although she clearly was losing that battle. Hawthorne noted that “The young have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of youth.” As the bride approached the Episcopalian church with her youthful entourage the mood soon began to sour. The chuch bell began a mournful, death knell. Everyone noticed, but the bride in particular. It was as if the “…stroke of the bell had  fallen directly on her heart…” Soon the groom’s company was seen approaching, but so too was that of a funeral. Others began to join the crowd already in the church. The bride thought she recognized old friends long deceased. “Many a merry night she had danced with them in her youth; and now, in joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should request her hand, and all unite in a dance of death, to the music of the funeral bell.”

When the groom appered he was wearing his shroud. “The corpse stood motionless, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt into the clang of the bell. Which fell heavily on the air while he spoke. ‘Come my bride!’ said those pale lips. ‘The hearse is ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the tomb. Let us be married; and then to our coffins!’ “

All human beauty is ended by death – omnem in homine venustatem mors abolet (with an erotic subtext)

The image shown below is a detail from a print by Hans Sebald Beham (ハンス・ゼーバルト・ベーハム: 1500-50). While Death is not quite a skeleton yet – note the muscular arms and legs – he is well on his way to becoming one. His head is the only obvious give away – other than the inscription, of course – but how many of us can easily translate from the Latin? But what is particularly bothering here is the obvious erotic nature of the couple: the seduction of death. The tilt of his head/skull as he whispers into her ear while holding firmly onto her wrists.

W. H. Auden (オーデン: 1907-73) once wrote:

Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral…

What’s worse than a going on a blind date?

If you have any suggestions please get in touch.

For more information about Japanese prints and culture please visit our other web site at http://www.printsofjapan.com/.

Momiji 紅葉 – The Japanese and their love affair with the maple tree and its beauteous foliage

The Japanese aren’t alone in their appreciation for the maple tree, but they are unique in the strength of their spiritual bonds and aesthetic expressions which had already formed more than 1,200 years ago. On the other hand, there are the Canadians who adopted a new, national flag – the red and white with a red maple leaf – on February 15, 1965. Christopher McCreery says that the choice of the new flag was spurred on by certain extraneous events during the Suez crisis of 1956. I don’t know anything about that, but what I do know is that the Canadians had been discussing and arguing over the design of a new flag for decades. One frequently mentioned element would be  the inclusion of a maple leaf or perhaps several. McCreery tells us that “The design that was ultimately chosen remained true to Canada’s heraldric traditions: it incorporated the national colours, red and white, as chosen by King George V, as well as a stylized Maple Leaf.” This leaf first appeared on Dominion coins in 1871. (The photograph of the flag shown below was placed in the public domain by Makaristos at wikimedia.org.)

Myself? I grew up – actually I never grew up – in Missouri and have fond memories of Aunt Jemima, pancakes and maple syrup. Pancakes are nothing without maple syrup. My mother made waffles too, but they were never very good. Sometimes they tasted like cardboard and all of the maple syrup in the world couldn’t save them. But she persisted. I guess she wasn’t going to stop until she got it right. She never did.

This is a photo I took last week in the parking lot of the complex
where I live. That’s not my car.

Momiji-gari  紅葉狩 – Viewing fall foliage as a spiritual/religious act

Whenever two American upper middle-class individuals or families meet each other for the first time – note my critical and somewhat elitist tone here – and they converse long enough eventually one will ask the other “Have you ever driven through Vermont ( バーモント) and New Hampshire ( ニューハンプシャー) in the fall? It is so beautiful.” Well, momiji-gari is the Japanese equivalent with one major exception: for the Japanese it is a truly spiritual experience on a level deeper or higher, depending on your point of view, than that normally felt by the Westerner driving through the low mountains of New England. Other than that there appears to be little difference between us on this matter.

The above image of momiji at Ginkaku-ji was place in
the public domain at wikimedia.org by Gribeco.

Bruce Feiler in his 1991 volume Learning to Bow describes making friends with a Japanese fellow who explained the background and significance of maple viewing to the Japanese: “Certain natural phenomena because of their splendor and singular beauty, developed almost a religious significance in ancient Japanese culture, where Shinto beliefs held that nature was the home of spirits who lived in the water, the land, and the trees. The mysterious transformation of green leaves into fiery reds and frosty yellows around the time of the harvest every year inspired awe among superstitious farmers. Just as a protocol around making tea… or painting calligraphy… so a proper form of viewing nature eventually evolved.” Feiler continued: “According to the Shinto code, the viewer on a proper leaf-viewing excursion should try to achieve a personal communion with the leaves, in a bond akin to the private communication between man and god at he heart of many Western religions. As Prince Genji once wrote to a lover, ‘A sheaf of autumn leaves admired in solitude is like damasks worn in the darkness of the night.’ By entering nature, one hopes to internalize the beauty of the leaves in one’s heart. Man enters nature, and nature, in turn, enters man.”

In the introduction to the book Japanese Maples: Momiji and Kaede by Vertrees (d. 1993) and Gregory it is noted that during the Edo period (1603-1867) up to 200 maple cultivars with poetical names existed. However, by the end of the Second World War many of these had been lost. Gardeners were forced to concentrate on food production and many rare, old and valuable maple trees were used for fuel during the war years. Generations of specialization were lost in no time to necessity.

Yet today maples, be they large, small or bonsai, are a must for every garden in Japan. ”A standard garden book published in 1710 mentioned 36 varieties of Acer palmatum. By 1733 an additional 28 names were listed. An Acer list of 1882 numbered 202…” Vertrees believed that there must surely have been more than that which which were unknown to the list makers.  An article in the July 2000 issue of Sunset said that today there more than 1,000 named varieties of the Japanese maple.

Vertrees said that both of the terms, momiji and kaeda, are used by the Japanese to “…indicate the maple species and cultivars.” Further on he said: “The word kaede stems from the ancient language term kaerude (kaeru, meaning ‘frog,’ and de, meaning ‘hand’).” The lobed leaf of the maple brought to mind the webbed ‘hands’ of the frog. The term was later shortened to kaede. At one time the term momiji may have been associated with a “baby’s pretty little hands.” How exactly this connection was made is unclear to me, but it is there nonetheless. Vetrees also noted that in ancient times there was the verb momizu which meant ‘to become crimson-leaved.’ According to him that morphed into momiji.

Momiji and the Tale of Genji: The Momiji no ga

The image shown immediately below is the crest identifying a specific chapter to the Tale of Genji. Each of the 54 chapters has been assigned one as a visual clue to what part of the tale is being represented. They are referred to as genjimon (源氏紋) and look somewhat like the modern bar code. Richard Lane and others put the number at 54 while Merrily Baird says there are only 52 which is the same number used in a Genji related incense game. Surely that is what she is referring to. Either way these mon can be extremely useful in identifying particular passages or sections of this story. They appear on innumerable Japanese woodblock prints. Sometimes they are placed in a cartouche in the upper part of  a print or they are subtly or not-so-subtly displayed on robes or domestic objects. However, sometimes - and here is the cautionary note – they simply form a decorative element and have nothing to do with the original 11th century tale and some of them aren’t even among of the accepted 54 mon although they look like they are.

At the beginning of chapter 7 the Emperor is about to set out for the to the Suzaku Palace. This procession is the momiji no ga which is to take place after the tenth day of the tenth month. It was to be quite a production and was also an extremely rare event meant to celebrate a particularly important birthday such as the fortieth or fiftieth. Captain Genji, our hero, was to perform the dance of the ‘Blue Sea Waves,’ which he did and did brilliantly. His performance was said to be heavenly. Not only did he do it well, but his personal beauty and style made him as radiant as radiant can be. I think that probably explains the decorative cap shown in the image below. Maybe he would have worn such an item.

Royall Tyler in his brilliant translation of this tale says that momiji no go means ‘Beneath the Autumn Leaves’. Arthur Waley entitled the chapter ‘The Festival of Red Leaves’: “The imperial visit to the Red Sparrow Court was to take place on the tenth day of the Godless Month. It was to be a more magnificent sight this year than it had ever been before…” Seidensticker called it ‘An Autum Excursion.’ The variance in these three translations shows the fluidity of the Japanese language. Each gets at the sense of the moment, but each is also different from the other.

This is a detail from a triptych by Eishi illustrating the
momiji no ga. Notice the elaborate outdoor setting
with the use of temporary curtains.

Now here is exactly the problem I have been talking about: The confusion over genjimon

On October 20th Eikei (英渓), a great and generous contributor to my other web site, sent me this image by Toyokuni III showing Genji and his cousin Tō no Chūjō performing the dance of the “Blue Sea Waves.”  Genji’s partner “…certainly stood out in looks and skill, but beside [him] he was only a common mountain tree next to a blossoming cherry.”

A detail close-up of the dancers hardly helps to distinguish one from the other, but the text is clear as to what the author intended.

And here is where the real confusion comes in. The title cartouche in the upper right of print clearly shows that this print is intended to illustrate the Momiji no ga chapter, but the genjimon is for that of Chapter 5, Wakamurasaki or ‘Young Murasaki’. Why? Was there a mix up at the publisher’s? Were they in a rush to get this edition out? Were they working from another text I am unfamiliar with. Who knows? Do you?

Momiji inspiring the poetic muse

There are more poems in Japanese which mention momiji than could possibly be listed here. The image shown above is detail from a print by Hokusai which accompanies a poem from the Heian period. Composed by Fujiwara no Tadahira (藤原忠平 880-949) it relates the story of the Emperor Daigo visiting his father, former Emperor Uda who had abdicated, became a monk and moved to Mt. Ogura near Kyoto. Uda convinced Tadahira , the Chief Minister at the Imperial Court, to invite Daigo to visit his father during the fall when the colors would be particulary beautiful. No matter how one reads the Japanese the maple leaves are presented with an almost human sentience.

If the maple leaves
On the ridge of Ogura
Have the gift of mind,
They will longingly await
One more august pilgrimage.

小倉山
峰のもみじ葉
心あらば
今ひとたびの
みゆきまたなむ

Nancy G. Hume in her book Japanese Aesthetics and Culture points out that “By far the most common subjects of Japanese poetry are the cherry blossoms and the reddening maple leaves of autumn. If one were obliged to read through the twenty-one imperial anthologies between the tenth and fifteenth centuries, one would certainly end by being thoroughly bored with both cherry blossoms and maple leaves.” Great quote!

Momiji as a poetic reference by allusion

Hiroshige created the momiji image shown above. It is only a part of a larger print, but is known to represent the “Maple Leaves of Mama (真間) in Shimōsa (下総) Province”. That means that there is a world of information to be gleaned here, but few would understand that just by looking at these leaves. Actually there are whole worlds within worlds hidden within other worlds in most traditional Japanese prints and paintings. The Westerner could hardly be expected to see much more than what is laid out before him/her. However, a literal interpretation, no matter how pleasing, of an image is often just as superficial as what one sees on reality TV.

The “Maple Leaves of Mama…” refers to a series of poems in the Man’yoshu (万葉集 8th century) which relate the story of a beautiful peasant girl who was so sought after that she committing suicide by drowning herself. Near that spot at Mama in Kazushika a memorial tomb was erected. Nearby are maple trees which – as you can tell by now – burn a beautiful red in the fall. The tomb, the view and the trees became a pilgrimage destination. Although I am not sure if momiji are ever mentioned in the poems devoted to this woman red maple leaves immediately bring to mind her tragic end.

Momiji as a euphemism for eating venison

While researching this post I ran across a rather unusual quote about the Japanese and meat eating. It appeared in The Politics of Food by Marianne Lien and Brigitte Nerlich. “Historical evidence suggests that meat was widely consumed despite the existing taboo. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the shōgun himself, as well as other members of the political elite regularly received gifts of beef, and restaurants specializing in game were thriving. Nevertheless an aura of pollution surrounded the practice of meat eating. Reports make it clear that eating meat was something fairly unusual, and euphemisms, such as botan (peony), sakura (cherry) and momiji (maple) were used when referring respectively to the meat of wild boar, horsemeat and venison.”

Recently I watched a Harvard lecture on YouTube in which Professor Michael Sandel discussed the ethical issues around cannibalism. He described a shipwreck, desperate men, their rescue and a famous trial. The professor noted that one of them wrote an account and said that the morning they were rescued they were eating their ‘breakfast’. I don’t remember Professor Sandel’s exact words, but he did note that the man’s description was a euphemism if he ever heard one.

Note: I want to thank a sharp-eyed reader of this site for pointing out to me that momiji was used as a euphemism for venison and not horsemeat as I had originally written. Thanks.

Momiji and the supernatural

Below is an image of a print by Kuniyoshi showing the struggle between Taira Koremochi and the demon of Mt. Togakushi. It was contributed to this post by my great friend Mike.

Momijigari is the name of a kabuki “…dance drama by Kawatake Mokuami that premiered in 1887. Based on a nō play, it is not, however, performed in kabuki’s version of nō style. It uses a more conventional setting in which a large maple tree occupies center stage.” This is from  The man who saved Kabuki: Faubion Bowers and Theatre Censorship in occupied Japan by Shirō Okamoto. (The three images from a vertical Yoshitoshi diptych shown below are also from my friend Mike. )

The play takes place during a leaf-viewing excursion on Mt. Togakushi (戸隠山). The hero, Taira Koremochi (平維望), and his men are hunting on the mountain when they come across a beautiful princess and her entourage holding a banquet. When they are invited to join the group they decline until the princess wins them. As Koremochi is falling asleep after drinking the wine offered by the princess he realizes that she is actually the demon in disguise so he kills her.

In another version Koremochi is separated from his men and runs across a group of maidens who are enjoying the Momijigari. He accepts their invitation to join them and drinks some of their rice wine and falls asleep. At that point the demons reveal themselves. However, the god Hachiman appears to Koremochi in a dream and gives him a magical sword. When our hero wakes up the sword is lying at his side and he uses it to kill the demons. The same thing happened in one of the versions of the tale of the monster Shuten-dōji.

In Light Verse from the Floating World: An Anthology of Pre-modern Japanese Senryū by Makoto Ueda there is a witty poem playing on the idea of the momijiri-gari and its seductive demon:

maple viewing
nowadays, the she-devil waits
at home

Why maple leaves?

Detail from a print by Toyokuni III with maple leaf motif on Takao’s kimono.

There is a series of kabuki plays which include the role of Ashikaga Yorikane (足利頼兼) and his love interest, Takao (高尾). Only one of these plays has the word momiji in it – as far as I know. As part of the costuming, more often than not, Takao is wearing something with maple leaves on it or has them as part of the decoration somewhere nearby. Yorikane is conventionally identifiable by a sparrow and bamboo motif. His obsession with his mistress means that he is neglecting affairs of state. For that reason Takao has to die.

The elaborate robes and hairpins or kanzashi (簪) worn by Takao indicate that she is from the highest rank of courtesans. In the Kunisada image detail below the actor playing her is wearing kanzashi with clearly defined maple leaves. In this case, these are the only momiji used to help us identify the role.

In another diptych by Kunihiro from ca. 1835 the artist portrayed Takao elaborately garbed, with kanzashi with maple leaf embellishments and a low screen with a momiji design.

But wait a minute: Some Japanese prints on this theme like the one shown below by Kuniyoshi present no maple leaves on Takao and none nearby. While both Yorikane and Takao are wearing two different versions of the sparrow-bamboo motif his borders on near total abstraction. There must be a message here, but I don’t know what it is unless one can never be too careful when using visual cues.

I had  no idea where I was going or what I am going to write about when I began this post. Now I am nearing an end and like all other topics there is much more to say, but maybe I will have to save that for another day. Thanks for staying with me this far.

For more information about Japanese prints and culture please visit our other web site at http://www.printsofjapan.com/.