A follow-up opinion piece from the New York Times on the legacy of Thomas Hoving, former director of the Metropolitan Museum, who passed away this past Thursday.

“Hoving … changed art museums from places where people went to commune with art into places “where art ‘happens.’ ””

“He wanted people to feel that same outsize thrill he felt standing in front of a picture, that same connoisseur’s rush that comes from knowing that something is terrific. However hucksterish and unrealistic, this wasn’t just about moving bodies through turnstiles. It was about somehow democratizing knowledge and feeling”

“I got an … e-mail message from him after I wrote about his tenure’s having suffered one “debacle after another,” … “You have to say,…, ‘Except for the Centennial shows, including the “Year 1200” and “New York, New York,” the acquisition of such works as the Juan de Pareja, Monet’s “Terrace,” Canova’s “Perseus,” Tony Smith’s “Becca,” the David Packard Collection of Japanese Art, the C. C. Wang Chinese paintings, the Euphronios kalyx krater, the Gian Lorenzo Bernini sculpture, the defeat of the curators’ union, the formation of the Curators’ Council, the architectural master plan, the Tut show, “The Great Age of Frescoes,” “Medieval Tapestries,” “The Age of Spirituality,” the Musical Instrument Galleries, the Islamic Galleries, the Temple of Dendur, the Egyptian galleries, the revenues from the expanded shops and mail-order catalogs, pay-what-you-wish admissions, the Lehman Collection and endowment, the Rockefeller Collections, the Arts Indemnity Act of 1970, Lila Wallace’s gift of $350 million, the lucrative parking garage with annual revenues of $5M’ ” — true New Yorker that he was, he was inordinately proud of his permanent parking spot there — “ ‘the expansion of the Education Department, and hires such as Richard Ettinghausen, Wen Fong, John Pope-Hennessy and Philippe de Montebello.’ ””

The New York Times reports today on the death of Thomas Hoving, probably one of the only museum directors whose name is known at all more widely. I was surprised to learn that he had only served as director for 10 years, and at a rather young age (35-45), given that his successor, Philippe de Montebello served for something like 31 years before stepping down in favor of Thomas Campbell last year. Nevertheless, Hoving’s ten year term saw many major acquisitions and developments. Hoving wrote several books later in life, relating tales of his adventures as a curator and director, and raising some serious controversies.

As today’s NYT obituary details, he first was offered a position at the Metropolitan Museum when, after giving a lecture at the Frick, just down the street, a gentleman invited him to come look at an object, related to the lecture, at the Metropolitan. That man turned out to be James Rorimer, director the museum at the time, who offered him a job. A book Hoving wrote many years later, “The King of the Confessors,” which I have read through and thoroughly enjoyed, details his pursuit of the acquisition of a particular carved ivory cross, known as the St Bury Edmund’s Cross, and takes place during his stint as curator of the Cloisters. I’ve been meaning for years now to visit the Cloisters, to which I have not been since high school, to see this cross.

Hoving served as Parks Commissioner for about 6 months in 1965, organizing “Hoving’s Happenings” in Central Park, at a time when Happenings, a term coined by Allan Kaprow, were all the rage in the art world. Rorimer died the following year, and Hoving was chosen to succeed him as director of the Museum.

Hoving’s decade of service as director saw a great many developments and acquisitions, some of them quite controversial. The grand Fifth Avenue steps were built at that time, making me wonder what the facade looked like before. A King Tut exhibit was hosted by the Museum, something that I understand won’t happen again because the Egyptian authorities insist that an extra admission fee be charged for Tut exhibitions, something the Met does not do (for which I applaud the museum); there may be other political reasons behind this rift between Egypt and the Met regarding King Tut – I am not sure.

Hoving oversaw the acquisition of the Temple of Dendur, which was, you might be surprised to discover, not a controversial acquisition, not an incident with questions of looting. The Temple would have been destroyed in the construction of the Aswan Dam (or in the flooding which resulted from the dam’s alteration of the river flow), and so it was to be donated. While several cities vied for the temple, including a bid by Boston to rebuild it on the banks of the Charles, the Metropolitan successfully argued that it would be better preserved indoors (thank god), at the Museum.

Another acquisition was not so tame an issue. As you might have seen in the news in recent years, a superb example of Greek vase painting, an object known as the Euphronius krater, was acquired by the Met in 1974. In later memoirs and such, Hoving admits that he knew at the time there was a chance it was looted; in fact, his writings indicate a very different attitude towards collecting from what would be politically correct today, not to mention in line with the ethical foundations of the American Association of Museums, etc etc. But in this, controversial as it may be, unethical as it may be, it all makes Hoving seem that much more of an exciting treasure hunter sort of figure. Today’s NYT article describes him as “one of [a] breed of brash, self-mythologizing leaders,” a description which I think quite fits, given the image I have of him based on his writings, and writings about him.

Hoving’s time also saw the beginning of major blockbuster exhibits, something which was quite controversial at the time, but which I can hardly imagine a major museum – particularly the Metropolitan – going without. The advertising and pomp and circumstance is a whole issue unto itself, but the very fact of the Met being the kind of place you can go to to see Michaelangelo’s first painting, or an amazingly thorough retrospective of the full career and oeuvre of JMW Turner is a wonderful thing. It’s not like they’re doing exhibits revolving around CSI, Harry Potter, baseball, and other such things just to bring in the crowds – they’re creating serious major art events.

Maybe not quite a household name, not quite a big-name celebrity in the wider world, but among art historians and the museum world, Hoving was one of the biggest names out there. I regret never having had the chance to meet him, but I look forward to reading more of his books, volumes which, though controversial in their lax attitudes towards the ethics of collecting, make the museum world seem a much more alive, exciting, and adventurous place than it would be otherwise.

Art Radar Asia shares with us today some rather captivating images of “tattooed bodies” artworks by Kim Joon, created entirely in 3D rendering software – no actual paint, tattoo needles, or bodies involved.

What is most captivating at first, of course, are the beautiful bodies; their nakedness, the beautiful pearly whiteness of their skin; the somewhat kinky or fetishistic appeal of painted-on forms and shapes interacting with the forms of their bodies.

http://artradarasia.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/korean-artist-kim-joon-discusses-tattoos-taboos-and-his-inspiration-interview/

But look closer, and the artworks really speak, in their juxtapositions of body parts of greatly differing sizes; in their use of disembodied limbs, and indeed in the fact that not only are there no faces shown in any of these images, but none of the bodies are in fact real. Does this make them less voyeuristic, less pornographic? What does this say about concepts of ideal beauty? By using artificially created bodies, is Joon saying something about the unreality of the ideal of beauty or its un-attainability? By separating these bodies from faces or heads, is he making a comment about bodies – male and female both – as sexual (or aesthetic) objects, divorced from their identities as human beings, with personalities, emotions, and individual identities?

Cheers, domo, and mahalo to Art Radar Asia for sharing this, and for their consideration in allowing me to re-share it.

Among art critics, art historians, art students, and Japanese studies people, I imagine Murakami Takashi to be one of those topics everyone has a take on. Like him, love him, hate him, there are many angles one can take on his work – many different praises or criticisms that can be leveled.

Despite the fact that my chief criticism of him (or of the art critics, curators, gallery owners, etc who praise his work) is of the way he overshadows the diversity of the world of Japanese contemporary art, even so I cannot myself help but write about him, as I have done at least twice before.

One of the most common criticisms is of his blurring of the lines between fine art and commercial art. Certain snooty portions of the art world want to have nothing to do with someone who designs for Louis Vuitton, and who produces & sells cheap merchandising of his art in the form of tshirts, figurines, pin badges, and plushies.

I have little problem with this – however, ironically perhaps, or in a twisted-back-on-itself kind of way, I rather agree with the criticism leveled by my professor today against Murakami’s place in the art world. The same collectors, dealers, galleries and others who criticize Murakami’s merchandising treat his works – his multimillion dollar works – as commodities, buying and selling them as investments, as wagers towards future value, treating art collections like stock portfolios and not as beautiful, cute, colorful, intriguing, or disturbing pieces of visual culture with a meaning and aesthetic to them. In short, the prioritizing of monetary value over cultural or artistic value in the art world today sickens me, and Murakami not only doesn’t fight it, but plays right along, eager to squeeze every penny out of his products.

I’ve just finished reading Stephen Turnbull’s newest book, “The Samurai Capture a King: Okinawa 1609,” an account of the 1609 invasion & conquest of the Kingdom of Ryūkyū by the samurai forces of the feudal domain (han) of Satsuma. Turnbull is easily one of the most prolific writers active today of samurai history, and while his books are for the most part of much higher quality than those associated with what I can only call “sammyrai” history*, he is definitely known for his sloppy scholarship and for the popular/general audience (read: non-academic/scholarly) level of his publications.

All in all, I must say, I was pleasantly surprised. I haven’t read a Turnbull/Osprey book in quite some time, and I guess I had built up some pretty harsh preconceptions (read: extremely low expectations) based on vague memories. To whatever extent that this account can be said to be reliable, Turnbull does provide a very involving, engaging, account of the invasion, in incredible detail. Contrary to my initial expectations and impressions, he does actually use Okinawan sources (not just Japanese ones), and does actually discuss at length the inconsistencies and exaggerations seen in troop numbers in the primary sources. He’s made me aware of primary sources I never knew existed – not only Shimazu family records and things like the Shimazu Ryûkyû Gunseiki and Ryûkyû Gunki, which I might have presumed to exist, but things like the ehon (picture book) version of the gunki monogatari (“Tales of the Records of War”) -something more commoner-level, and more widely available at the time of its publication.

Though I was at first frustrated or annoyed by his Shimazu-centric approach – given that I’m so used to reading things from the Okinawan point of view, and seeing the Shimazu as the attackers, the colonizers, the oppressive overlords – that feeling quickly passed, and in fact, I find his approach most intriguing.

I’m still a little taken aback at his representation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom as aggressive and expansive, when everything else I’ve read has to one extent or another emphasized the martial weakness and relatively pacifist attitude of Ryūkyū. This is perhaps the first (only) text I’ve read that explicitly refers to the Ryūkyū Kingdom as expansive and aggressive, and the first that in any way assumes validity to Satsuma’s claims over any of the islands; i.e. argues that the Ryūkyū Kingdom was aggressive against Satsuma, and that Satsuma felt the need to defend or reclaim their territory. I guess we (aspiring & professional Okinawa scholars) have all fallen into that trap of reading backwards into history a sort of Manifest Destiny on the side of the Ryūkyū Kingdom. However their expansion is described in books by Kerr, Smits, Matsuda, Sakihara, or even Sakai (the top Satsuma specialist), it very rarely has that tinge of aggressive, expansive, conquest.

On a quite related note, I am intrigued by Turnbull’s apparent position on the side of Satsuma in supporting or recognizing their claims to a number of islands which they claimed for centuries but never governed, administered, settled or colonized. At least he admits that the Shimazu never exercised any authority over these islands prior to 1609, but merely claimed them. Perhaps that’s him reading back into history as if those islands which are today part of Kagoshima Prefecture rather than Okinawa Prefecture – seized by Satsuma in this 1609 operation – are therefore, in the imagination, inherently part of Satsuma and always have been.

Perhaps, this is a good thing. Turnbull’s Shimazu-centric approach cuts like a Foucaultian-cleaver (no connection to Foucault’s pendulum; it’s a different Foucault) through the questions and perspectives hidden from us by the webs of prior discourse. We’d become so used to seeing the Satsuma-Ryūkyū relationship a certain way that no one even thought to, let alone dared to, consider the whole thing from Satsuma’s point of view, in a relatively positive light.

I do not wish to paint the book in a wholly negative light. In fact, on balance, I’d say it was quite good. It does an excellent job of describing the invasion in great detail, going far far beyond anything previously published in English, and thus provides a most interesting bit of reading, and a most useful resource.

I do, however, have some issues I would like to raise:

(1) Going beyond simply focusing on events from Satsuma’s point of view, he truly valorizes and lionizes the Shimazu effort, samurai weapons, fighting skills, and strategies. This is perhaps the chief fundamental flaw running throughout all his writing.

He spends time praising and in fact worshipping through his words the amazing technology and craftsmanship of the samurai katana. He then goes on to describe the other weapons, ships, flags, banners and other signalling methods, and strategies and tactics as though they are all glowing, superb elements of what made the samurai the greatest warriors in all of history. Unprofessional, subjective, inaccurate, and extremely one-sided, I should think that if I had written something like this, I would be embarrassed of myself.

He describes the Shimazu forces as having excellent intelligence, liaison, and communication in such a manner that it seems not an objective, factual description, but a celebration of their amazing martial prowess; by contrast, he portrays the Ryukyuans as totally lacking in strategy, tactics, or planning, reacting far too late at every step of the way, their defenses incompetent to the point of being laughable. These are what we, at Wikipedia, call “peacock words.” Calling anything excellent, amazing, or brave just to lionize that side colors the description in a way that’s not only subjective and potentially inaccurate, but is indeed unprofessional for any self-respecting scholar.

Again, while these may be accurate descriptions, and he does in fact quote directly from primary sources to describe the utter chaos that erupted as peasants and commoners gathered their possessions on carts and horseback and fled for the hills, somehow it is in the way that he describes it which paints a picture not of sympathy for the outgunned Ryukyuans, whose tiny kingdom was destroyed in one fell swoop, but of glorious, valorous victory for the Shimazu over foolish, primitive, incompetent islanders.

On another crucial point, Turnbull again fails to represent the nuances of the history. He gives a fairly thorough overview of the ways in which Satsuma hid its presence in the islands, and the complex reasons for doing so (Chinese trade through Ryūkyū as a tributary was contingent on the Chinese belief that Ryūkyū was still independent, since China was not trading with Japan at the time). But then he neglects a key point: namely, that most scholars today believe that Beijing was well aware of what was going on, and chose to continue playing the game as it benefited them in whatever way. In misrepresenting this, Turnbull continues his pattern of exaggerating and celebrating Shimazu ability, failing to present a more accurate and objective account.

(2) No footnotes or endnotes. No idea which statements are coming from which source, or which page. Imagine how much side information is left out by not having footnotes.

(3) While it would be difficult to say that Turnbull made any true mistakes in representing the ranks and titles of the Ryukyuan aristocracy, discussion of it is absent, and that still frustrates me a bit. This is what happens when you don’t have footnotes.

He represents the individual known as Kyan ueekata, which might be translated as “Magistrate of Kyan” or “Lord of Kyan”, as if Kyan were his name, rather than his domain. He mentions princes, describing them as the king’s son and brother, completely failing to acknowledge that “prince” was a rank within the aristocracy that was often held by those not directly related to the royal line. Were these individuals actually the king’s son and brother? I’m not sure. Maybe he was misguided by their title of “Prince”. Or maybe he’s right.

He represents Rizan, ueekata of Jana, who was also known by the Chinese-style name of Tei Dô (Zheng Jiong), as “Jana Teido”, mixing names & titles incorrectly, with no care for macrons, and with no explanation whatsoever of the different names and titles of Okinawan aristocrats. This would have been the perfect opportunity to make use of footnotes…

(4) A horribly unprofessional lack of consistency in the use of macrons. I know this sounds quite nitpicky, but in truth it’s no different than correct spelling. Typos I can excuse – such as the flubbing of a date on one of the otherwise very keen date flags that run along the margins heightening the sense of action and drama by providing a timeline of events. But when you consistently, throughout the book, spell Ryūkyū correctly (indicating the long vowels that would distinguish it from the short-voweled Ryukyu) and Ōtomo incorrectly, as Otomo, that’s a problem. Non-scholarly, public consumption book or no, I should think that Dr Turnbull of all people – an obvious enthusiast for the dramatic and exciting narratives and biographies of clans and of individual samurai – would care to get this right.

This happens throughout the book. The name of the kings, that of the Shō dynasty (not Sho) is rendered correctly, but things like Ōwan, which he explicitly translates or describes as “the great bay” and Ōshima (“Great Island”), are rendered as Owan and Oshima, which in Japanese can only mean “small bay” or “honorable bay” and “small island” or “honorable island”, respectively, the Ō for “great” never being represented by a short “O” vowel sound.

Further typoes include the description of Naminoue (“Above the Waves”) Shrine as Nama no ue (“Above Freshness”) on one of the maps, and Name no ue (“Above Licking”) on a caption. This is possibly the fault of copyeditors, but Turnbull knows Japanese – if this was his own mistake, then shame on him for not taking the time or the bother to notice the vast difference in meaning he’s created, to the point that I, quite honestly, saw “Nama no ue” and had no idea what or where he was talking about.

On a similar note, and I am sure this is the fault of the Osprey editors or book designers, and not of Dr Turnbull, the date flags which run alongside the margins, keeping the energy of the narrative going by marking off events and providing a timeline, do not correspond at all to what’s described on their respective pages. I love these flags – I think they’re a great feature. But when the siege on Nakijin is described in the text on pp32-37, and the timeline flag in the margins for these events is found on p43, that’s a problem. Throughout the book, the narrative runs way ahead of the flags, such that the flags for the mid-point events of the conflict are found on pages describing the surrender and aftermath.

———-

All in all, if you’re interested in the subject, I cannot but recommend this book. It is by far the most detailed account available in English, is filled with wonderful illustrations and maps, and is a relatively easy read (not too dense at all). But if you are truly serious about researching the topic, I would suggest that you double-check any and all facts gotten out of this book. Turnbull frustratingly does not include any footnotes or endnotes, but at least there’s a bibliography.

As for the price, I’ve gotten things only slightly shorter, and of great scholarly importance (read: things that form the foundation of my own research; things I cite all the time) for free, through my universities’ subscriptions to JSTOR. Had this been published in a journal rather than as a separate book, you too could have downloaded it totally for free, provided you were associated with a university. I’ve also bought books far longer, thicker for $20. In fact, half the books on my shelf are 4x the length of this one, and less than 2x (or even less than 1x) the cost. But, it’s hardly a totally absurd price to pay; I’ve seen academic books and museum catalogs that go for hundreds of dollars.

——-
*Books which exaggerate and falsify the martial skills of samurai and ninja, maintaining and reinforcing the absurd stereotypes of ninja magic and unreal, superhuman samurai ability seen in video games, anime, and other forms of fiction. The kind of stuff aimed at or primarily consumed by teenage martial arts enthusiasts obsessed with exotic weapons, bushido, and the like, who aren’t even on the level of ‘armchair historian’, let alone proper scholar.

How long has this feature been around?

I just discovered it today, as I Googled the name Ôkuma Shigenobu (founder of Waseda University, former prime minister, and all-around major Meiji period figure) and found a link to this timeline, auto-generated from web results that feature his name, and a date.

Sadly, I don’t imagine this could possibly be reliable in any way; I’m not going to leap up and start plugging these facts – from a wide range of websites with an equally wide range of degrees of authoritativeness and reliability – into Wikipedia or, god forbid, my scholarship. But… it’s still a cute feature I hadn’t previously known about.

Thanks to JAHF for pointing me to this Japan Times article on a new exhibition at the Miho Museum in Shigaraki, featuring the newly discovered Whale & Elephant Screens which I discussed some months ago.

Along with this pair of folding screens, the exhibit showcases many of Jakuchû’s other works, and addresses a renewed understanding of his biography and personality. Though generally seen as someone incompetent or uninterested in business (Jakuchû had taken over his family’s greengrocer stand at the age of 23), new research apparently has revealed that, for a brief time, he was actually extremely involved in local business politics, giving up painting for a time in order to serve as the Nishiki district representative. There was a conflict with the wholesalers of the Gojô district, which ended apparently in the revocation of the Nishiki market’s license and its closure by the shogunate; Jakuchû is said to have played an integral role in negotiations for its reopening.

We are given a glimpse into another side of this most intriguing figure…

I wish I was going to have a chance to see the exhibit myself, but perhaps you will, dear reader.

“Jakuchu Wonderland” at the Miho Museum, Shigaraki, Shiga Prefecture; runs till Dec. 13; open 10 a.m.-5 p.m; admission ¥1,000. For more information, visit www.miho.or.jp.

There is a brief article in the Mainichi today about the ways young men from outside the kabuki hereditary lineages can become adopted into those lineages and become kabuki actors. As Japanese newspapers have an annoying tendency to not keep archives available online, with the protection of journalistic fair use, I’ll reproduce the English version of the article here:

Despite appearances to the contrary, Tokyo’s Kabuki-za, where tickets sell out day after day, is not quite a closed shop, despite its long tradition of acting families. Those wishing to tread the boards in traditional Japanese style might wish to read on, as we look at two ways of breaking into the world of kabuki acting.

The first is the direct method, involving sponsorship by an established performer. One such up-and-comer is Nakamura Umemaru, 13 years old and apprentice to Nakamura Baigyoku, 63, and who is currently performing in “Kyo o Midasu Uwasa no Kagizume” at the National Theater until Oct. 27.

Umemaru’s parents both work in the publishing industry, but it was clear he was destined for other things when he became entranced by the splendor of kabuki at the tender age of three, after a trip to the theater with his mother.

“I realized I wanted to go on stage,” he said.

He first met mentor Baigyoku backstage at a performance at the age of six. “I let him help out backstage. I thought he would get tired of it, but he started to enjoy it more and more,” Baigyoku recalls.

Umemaru first went on stage himself in 2005, and was given his name two years later.

“Acting and rehearsing is more fun than school,” he says, and the problem is balancing the two.

“In Kabuki, I play characters that don’t exist in modern times. It feels like another world.”

Those that take the direct route can also rise to stardom. Matsumoto Kôshirô VII, a renowned performer from the Meiji to the Shôwa periods, was a protege of Ichikawa Danjûrô IX. Modern stars Bandô Tamasaburô V and Kataoka Ainosuke were also groomed for fame from their apprentice days.

The other way is to take specialist training with the Japan Arts Council (JAC). Of the 305 kabuki actors in April 2009, 86 were graduates of the JAC course.

The three-year course is open to boys aged 15-23, and covers the foundations of acting, movement, traditional Japanese dance and other disciplines. Graduates then go on to join the acting division of production company Shôchiku.

Of the 26 to take the entrance exam in the 2007 academic year, which tests recitation, singing and rhythm skills, amongst other areas, just 10 passed. Three have since quit, leaving seven still enrolled.

The trainees are also participating in “Kyo o Midasu Uwasa no Kagizume.” There will be positions available at the institute for the next school year starting in the spring, with applications accepted until Feb. 26.

(Mainichi Japan) November 1, 2009

Thanks to Nagaeyari of the Ancient Japan Blog for the heads up on this article.

I always have a difficult time remembering which prominent American scholar it was that advised the US government to spare Kyoto and Nara from bombing during World War II. And now and then, I am reminded, as I come across the name Langdon Warner again. What a debt is owed to him, the temples, machiya, sacred and artistic treasures, and so much else of these hearts of Japanese traditional culture, protected and preserved due to his efforts (though so much has been lost to modernization in the decades since…).

However, it would seem that he “rescued” a number of wall paintings from Dunhuang in the 1920s, which were later sold to the MFA. I had no idea this had occurred, and certainly don’t believe I had any idea that the MFA owned Dunhuang wall paintings. What incredible objects to own (I wonder what form and condition they’re in – solid blocks of painted stone?), and what a controversy I can imagine this has become. Was it controversial at the time? I wonder.

Strangely, I cannot seem to find the paintings in the MFA online database; perhaps they have since deaccessioned and repatriated them?

Potter and linguist Dennis Krueger explains the origins and meaning of many pottery words, from slip to clay to throwing to glaze, in a page entitled “Why On Earth Do They Call It Throwing?” on Ceramics Today.com.