Kanô Hôgai’s Hibo Kannon

I was fortunate this summer to get to see, up close, in person, at the Freer Gallery of Art, a painting by Kanô Hôgai (1828-1888) called “Hibo Kannon,” or “Kannon as Merciful Mother.”

Hôgai is often cited as the last master of the Kanô school; he painted both traditional ink paintings more or less indistinguishable from those of his predecessors, and was among the pioneers of the neo-traditional form known as Nihonga. This work was featured at the Paris Salon in 1883, and later purchased by Ernest Fenollosa, a major supporter of Hôgai, who in turn later sold it to Charles Lang Freer. The piece was so popular that Hôgai later produced a second version of the work, which is now held by Geidai (the Tokyo National University of Fine Arts). A third copy, produced by Okakura Shûsui (1867-1950), nephew of Fenollosa’s companion Okakura Kakuzô, and today in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, generally falls outside of the radar of discussions of this work. … It would be amazing to see all three together, but, alas, it can never happen, as the first cannot leave the Freer (in DC), and the second cannot leave Japan.

Left: Kanô Hôgai’s original 1883 painting, now in the Freer Gallery at the Smithsonian. Right: Okakura Shûsui’s version, now in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Photos from the official online collections databases of the two institutions; I was going to use my own photos, but these are so much clearer and cleaner.

Martin Collcutt has written a chapter in Ellen Conant’s edited volume Challenging Past and Present, entitled “The Image of Kannon as Compassionate Mother in Meiji Art and Culture,” which addresses this work; Chelsea Foxwell has recently also published an article on the subject, included in the Dec 2010 issue of The Art Bulletin, and titled “Merciful Mother Kannon and its Audiences.”

Still, just looking at the original in the storerooms of the Freer, while thinking about the MFA version, and the Tokyo version, which I called up on my smartphone, I noticed for myself some interesting comparisons and contrasts.

(The following is adapted from my notes taken, more or less stream-of-thought style, as I stood in front of the object. Bear with me, please, as I fail to directly state my assumptions, and just describe how the object differed…)

Looking at the piece in person, it is dramatically different from what I remembered, which might just mean my memory is flawed. (Which is probably true to an extent; as it turns out, however, there are in fact major differences between the original Freer version, and the two later works, the one by Hôgai in Tokyo and the copy by Okakura in Boston.) The piece is overall darker and more drab than I had pictured it. Is this just the aging of the silk and fading of pigments? The gold of Kannon’s jewelery shines – I didn’t realize real gold (or some kind of gold pigment?) was used on this. I especially did not realize that gold was used for a stream of liquid poured down onto the baby.

The baby does not float in the bubble as I had thought, but crouches upright on a bit of gold-rimmed cloud. The red ribbon seems more a real cloth wrapped around him, and while the “womb” idea may still be very much present, the composition makes sense without it. Is the bubble a bubble? If he’s not floating in it, then is it perhaps just an aura or the like? The bodhisattva, too, looks far more masculine, or more androgynous, less feminine, than I’d thought a “Kannon as Mother” would be.

The blue-eyed (!?) baby points downwards, looking up to Kannon as if asking something. What is this meant to convey? Something about caring about the world of mortals below? Or about desiring to go down there? Is the baby asking for Kannon to take action, or just asking out of curiosity and infantile naivete?

Ah. As I thought, now that I’m looking at it in person, the Okakura work shows some major differences from this Hôgai original. The overall composition is the same, but many details are different. A purple cloud behind the boy’s head more strongly implies the deep red fleshy colors of the womb, an association I remembered feeling quite strongly when looking at the Okakura and was surprised to not see as strongly evidenced in the Hôgai. In the Okakura, in addition, the boy does not point down, questioning as though asking a parent, but rather looks up, curious, surprised, or frightened by the bodhisattva, his hands clasped together (and not pointing). The red cloth wraps around him more completely here, its end not floating in the air as in Hôgai’s work, but seeming to emerge from within the purple, more closely evoking the idea of an umbilical cord.

Kannon’s mustache remains, and so the face and relative flat-chested body cannot be said to definitively look more female. But, whereas Hôgai left blank silk for the areas of Kannon’s exposed skin, now discolored as silk is wont to do, Okakura painted the skin in, a pale pinkish white, the more porcelain look of the ideal of womanly skin.

…

So, that’s it for the notes I took at that time. As I said, I have yet to read any articles about the production of these pieces, and so I don’t have any special insights into why these changes were made, or when and where exactly Okakura might have seen the Hôgai piece (though, given the strong ties between Hôgai and Fenollosa, and between Fenollosa and Okakura Kakuzô, and between Kakuzô and Okakura Shûsui, his nephew, it seems not unlikely that Shûsui was able to see the original quite close-up and in person). But, for now, for a start, I thought I would just share these observations. I hope you find them interesting… One of these days, maybe I’ll give it more thought and figure out something more to say about these intriguing works.

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Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition

I am still way behind on posting about exhibits I saw on the East Coast over winter break. Trying to catch up… but I realize I’ve lost my notes that I took of my impressions and thoughts while visiting this exhibit, which is only going to make the whole process that much more difficult, as I try to reconstruct those impressions from the photographs, and from memory.

Fresh Ink: Ten Takes on Chinese Tradition at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, is a major Chinese art event not to be missed. It features ten new works by major Chinese artists inspired by the great treasures of the MFA’s Chinese art collection.* So, this is not just an opportunity to see amazing works by some of the hottest contemporary artists in the world today, but also to see some exceptionally, unbelievably famous Chinese paintings, and to see the way these contemporary artists have reinterpreted or reimagined the themes or compositions of the masterpieces of the past.

I had made the mistake of assuming it would be in the Asian Art galleries, and went there first. It’s a testament to how big a deal this exhibit is that it is being shown not in the Asian galleries, but rather in the new Gund Gallery for special exhibitions, right below the heart of the new expansion, i.e. right outside the new Art of the Americas Wing.

It was absolutely incredible to see the “Five-Color Parakeet” by Emperor Huizong – easily one of the most famous Chinese paintings, ever. Open up any good, thorough survey textbook of the history of Chinese art, and I can practically guarantee it will be in there. I felt like no matter how long I stood in front of that piece, it would be too short a time to pay it proper respects. Unless I end up working at the MFA (dream job!), I imagine it unlikely I will be seeing that painting again for a long long time, if ever. And yet, standing before it, prevented from really getting close enough to appreciate it properly, on account of the sheet of plexiglass that stood vertically between me and the painting, laid out horizontally on a pedestal, I just could not help but feel like I ought to be getting more out of this interaction. Here it is. A super super famous painting, by an emperor no less – a really famous emperor.

Seeing that work was incredible. But, even as I felt the desire to stand there and stare at it until something more happened, until some switch clicked and the super special experience I was waiting for happened, I knew I had to keep moving. I skimmed the rest of this “Masters” exhibition, wondering where all the rest of the treasures of the collection, not to mention the new works, were…. Certainly, the other works up were ancient, and famous, and masterful as well, but they were not any works I remembered having heard of (which speaks more to my ignorance than to anything about these masterpieces), and so I finally made my way to the Info Desk to ask and find out where Fresh Ink was.

I was pointed to a giant banner hanging over the stairs, reading “Fresh Ink.”

Each artist was introduced with a label like this one, including her signature, photos of her and her studio or process, quotes on the wall about her approach or attitude, a brief biography and summary of analysis of her work. Really a fantastic model that I think could be applied positively, productively, to most exhibits.

As soon as I hit the bottom of the stairs, boom, I got my first glance of “Fresh Ink,” and could see that it was everything “Chinese Master Paintings from the Collection” was not. It is an exhibit with some real design to it, with gallery-labels and an overall exhibit design custom-designed for this exhibition, in a super sleek, post-museum** sort of style. Rather than each piece being simply labeled with title, date, media, etc. and a brief description, we saw multiple labels for each piece, including photos of the contemporary artist with his or her signature and a brief biography, along with a brief discussion of the artist’s and curators’ thoughts and interpretations and ideas regarding the work. Other labels discussed other aspects of the piece, such as the art historical significance of the traditional masterpiece displayed alongside the new work, which served as the inspiration.

I was truly blown away by this exhibit immediately upon stepping inside. The gallery opens up in front of you, immediately presenting you with a very clear view of at least two new and contemporary works that, if you know your Chinese art history, immediately remind you of particular treasures from the collection.

For some reason, I had expected to see very conservative monochrome ink landscapes, the sort of thing that only the most expert of experts would recognize as innovative. I guess it was the “Ink” in the exhibition title. Instead, we see energetic, innovative, colorful (in some cases), incredible works using Western media (in most cases) and techniques to refer to classic compositions – really, my favorite kind of contemporary art.

Yu Hong – Spring Romance

Yu Hong’s piece is in Western paints and Western styles, in a form that couldn’t be anything but modern/contemporary – a single composition spread out across a number of separate pieces of silk, hanging more like banners than like hanging scrolls. Yet, walking into the gallery, I immediately recognized it as a reworking of the composition of “Court Ladies Preparing Newly Woven Silk,” a rather famous 12th century handscroll painting attributed to Emperor Huizong, the last emperor of the Northern Song dynasty, who also painted the parakeet mentioned above. Before even delving into any other aspects of this, the idea of a work on silk inspired by (based on) a work about preparing silk, itself also painted on silk, inserting women in modern fashions, depicted in modern/Western paints (oils? acrylics? I need to learn to be able to tell) and in a style unlike that of traditional Chinese works, holding up the ancient work on silk – these aspects alone put a smile on my face and have me enjoying the work.

The referential aspect of the artwork does not end there. Each of these young women is, in fact, a figure from another of Yu Hong’s works, each of them a friend or acquaintance, and each with a story to tell. As the labels in the gallery explain, the woman playing the flute, seen here in a detail of “Spring Romance,” had commissioned Yu Hong to paint her in commemoration of her pregnancy. We see also a friend of Yu’s, a novelist who had fallen off a building, and who asked Yu to produce casts, that is, plaster molds, of her healed legs afterward – Yu Hong herself is thus present as well, her hands covered in white plaster.

Li Jin – Reminiscence to Antiquity. Ink and color on paper, 2009. Album leaves mounted as hanging scrolls.

Li Jin’s piece at first seemed naive, amateurish, somehow. Sloppy. Like I could look at it once, think “ah, okay. Yup. Got it. Nice.” and just move on. But lingering for one moment longer, I began to see an incredible (anyone want to keep count of how many times I fail to vary my adjectives?) realism and density of color and form, and some real humor and parody in the details.

Backing up again, I love that he has created album leaves on hanging scrolls – a traditional format for very untraditional subjects in untraditional media inspired by, based on, referring back to, a traditional work.

I wish I could share with you all the pictures I took in the exhibition – there’s really just so much to see here, and so much to talk about. But, my posts are more than long enough as is, plus I feel that would be pushing the boundaries of fair use and such even more so than I already am. In any case, the exhibition is still up for a while, and the catalog should be widely available, if you would like to see more. Though the works look really watercolory at first, and I just sort of automatically therefore assumed them not worth a second look, I am glad that I did take a second look at them. Many of these album leafs are actually majorly accomplished, dense with detail and life-likeness, telling vignettes and/or sharing a great sense of humor or parody.

Based on a handscroll painting entitled “Northern Qi Scholars Collating Texts” and attributed to the great Tang dynasty painter Yan Liben (c. 600-673), Li Jin created a pair of handscrolls, and then also these album leafs / hanging scrolls, speaking to the less than serious attitudes these great ancient scholars seem to be taking. Though today we look back at the ancients and “paint” them, so to speak, in our history books and in our minds, as being of immaculate moral uprightness, and their compilations of the ancient classics of poetry and literature to verge on sacred, mythological events, in fact, even in a painting such as this – Yan Liben likewise being extolled as a paragon of virtuous, masterful Tang dynasty painting – we can clearly see the ancient masters having a raucous, drunken good ol’ time. So, Li Jin, as others (such as Wang Qingsong) have as well, seek to engage with this idea by reimagining such drunken and debaucherous escapades in a more contemporary (modern) context, or at least combined somehow with elements of the modern.

The handscrolls (not pictured here; sorry) were completed in Boston in 2008; when the artist returned to China he realized he needed to create further works on the same themes, completing the project by engaging with the subject not only in Boston, but also after having come home, those thoughts and ideas and thematics in mind, engaging with them in the different context of now being back in China.

Chinese art history, even moreso than the art histories of most cultures, is all about engagement with the past; traditionally, the only proper way to innovate in painting or calligraphy in China was to first master not only the styles of the masters of the past, but to truly engage with the spirit of those masters, and to then innovate within that tradition. Having these ten artists work with the treasures of the museum’s collection, and create new works inspired by the masterpieces of the past, therefore, is a most wonderful continuation of the spirit of that tradition, a most excellent fusion of traditional methods of developing the tradition and modern/Western-inspired media, subjects, and style. I am highly amused and entertained, and indeed pleased, therefore, to see that at least one of the artists spoke to the idea that these efforts to reclaim the past, in order to better gain insights into the present, which is essentially the central theme and purpose of this exhibition, and a major theme throughout Chinese art history, could possibly be less than successful.

Li Jin writes:

“How can people of today possibly know the thoughts of the ancients?
Mistakenly, they replace the old times with the new.
Li Jin lived in Boston in the spring of 2008, in order to pursue
A sense of antiquity…
But it was in vain.”

Fresh Ink is open through February 13th. I sadly did not know about it, and so will be missing out, but more contemporary Chinese works in the same vein will be up at the Harvard Museums through May 14, in an exhibit entitled “Brush and Ink Reconsidered.”

I could go on to talk about all the works in this show – they are each of them quite fascinating and beautiful. But I think I shall leave it for now. I hope you have the chance to see the show in person, yourself.

At the rate I’ve been going it will be a long time before my photos of this Boston trip are up on Flickr, but trust me, they will be eventually. In the meantime, please feel free to go take a look at my photos from Kyoto from last summer.

Upcoming posts will feature Japan Society’s exhibit “The Sound of One Hand: Zen Paintings by Hakuin Ekaku,” as well as a post on the 33rd Annual University of Hawaii Graduate Students Art Exhibition, up now, featuring some breathtaking work by my close friends & “cohort”/colleagues/classmates. Thank you for reading!!

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*To be accurate, one work is by a Chinese-American artist, inspired by a Jackson Pollock. The rest are by Chinese artists, inspired by Chinese artworks from the collection.
**Post-modern is, of course, a term super-laden with meaning. And as I am hardly an expert at modern art terminology, I’ll leave that one alone. Suffice it to say, I identified the design aesthetic of the exhibition as something which felt, or tasted, very forward-looking, very contemporary, very new and sleek, precisely the kind of thing I wish we saw more of.

All photos taken myself. No one is to blame for the poor quality but me (and perhaps Apple; they looked soooo clear and sharp on the iPhone screen, but then when I uploaded them…). The artworks themselves are of course copyright the respective artists; gallery labels etc are copyright Museum of Fine Arts, and no claims of creative property are made by me here. Purely using photography for “personal non-commercial purposes”, pseudo-journalism, fair use in so far as I can justifiably argue so.

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The MFA’s Transformation

Years ago, I interned at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, for a short time. At that time, the American Wing expansion plans were in an early stage, and a major exhibition of Chinese contemporary art was likewise in the very first planning stages. So, visiting the MFA a few weeks ago to see both the Chinese contemporary exhibition “Fresh Ink” and the newly completed and opened American wing was a visit a long time in the making, so to speak, and one I very much looked forward to. (Sadly, in the end, I did not give myself enough time to take my time and take it all in properly.)

It’s not just a new wing — really, this comes as the cornerstone or culmination of a major overhaul and redesign of the museum. Some very significant portion of the museum (75%?) remains more or less untouched, but the entrances and general expected visitor path through the museum have changed completely, and that makes all the difference. The West Wing entrance, through the parking lot, which was the main entrance for years, as long as I can remember, is now blocked off. I think it may be still used for school groups and the like, but where there used to be the main box office, a large coat room, and the like, is now a more or less empty foyer with nearly blank white walls, feeling, along with the café, museum shop, and auditorium which it connects to, like a distant corner of the museum, considerably isolated from the center of the action.

The front entrance in the center of the Neo-Classical facade, facing the street, long quite secondary, is now the primary entrance, with a brand new box office to the right, where one of the main galleries of Egyptian artifacts was. To the left of this front entrance, the South Asian galleries have been shrunken and relocated to make room for a gift shop, and the corridor leading into the otherwise largely unchanged Asian Arts section has been given new glass doors and otherwise been dressed up.

The new courtyard, looking back towards the new visitors’ center. (No shots of the visitors’ center itself; sorry.)

A large room at the center of the museum has been converted into a major visitors’ center, with a large, flashy information desk, and a number of tables and seats for relaxing, meeting up, or planning your next steps. This has been there since at least a year and a half ago (Summer 2009), if not earlier… except that now it looks out onto the brand-new Carl & Ruth Shapiro Family Courtyard, a glorious glass-walled, large, airy courtyard filled with natural light and an expensive-looking café.

In my courses at UH, we have discussed the discursive implications of museum layouts, and how even today, many museums’ layouts can still be interpreted to subtly imply or reflect Orientalist or Euro-centric (American-centric) attitudes. Think about your local museum, or any major museum you’ve been to. Which cultures’ art is displayed in the greatest places of honor? Which galleries are most immediately available and visible upon entering the museum, and which ones are hidden away in basements, in the far back corner, or in otherwise removed and distant parts of the museum?

The MFA, like the Honolulu Academy of Arts, has long addressed this problem by attempting to balance the Asian and Western wings on opposite sides of the main front entrance. Walk in the main front entrance, and it used to be that India was on your left, followed by China and Japan as you moved deeper into the museum in that direction; Egypt was on the right of the entrance, followed by Greece and Rome. This is of course hardly a perfect solution, as this still implies a rather elitist and old-school view of the hierarchy of cultures and arts, barely changed from the Victorian ideas which served as the foundations of the first museums. In fact, I would argue quite strongly that there can never be a perfect solution, and that no matter what the arrangement / layout may be, it will always be interpretable as perpetuating this or that discriminatory or otherwise politically incorrect discourse. It’s just an ineviability – we try, we do what we can, but such discourses are by their very nature unavoidable and ever-present.

The stairs and glass windows of the new Arts of the Americas galleries. Paul Revere welcomes you on the ground floor, to exhibits on colonial New England, while a contemporary sculpture in steel(?), visible from here in the courtyard, marks the modern/contemporary section. Native arts are in the basement, out of sight from here.

That said, it is hard to ignore the fact that, while this balanced East/West dichotomy may remain at the entrance to the museum, standing in the new courtyard, the new center of the museum, all the art overseen by the “Arts of Asia, Oceania, and Africa” department, or, as one friend put it, “the department of the art of non-whites,” is off in an other part of the museum, the older part, a part that feels distant and removed from this bright, shiny, new, exciting expansion.

Imagine you’re the stereotypical museum visitor. You’ve just arrived and, as the designers/planners intended, you go straight to the new visitors’ center, pick up a map and talk to the staff about what’s going on today and what’s to see. You’re beyond that balanced East/West entranceway now, and are starting your exploration of the museum facing the new courtyard. Ancient Egypt is to your left; the Arts of Europe to your right. And, straight ahead, stretching up four floors, in grand style, as if it were the culmination of all arts of humankind, is the Arts of America Wing.

(Though, I will certainly grant them major brownie points for having the big temporary exhibits gallery, below this main courtyard, be a Chinese art show at the moment, and not one of Western art.)

The Native North American Arts gallery

Yes, granted, the MFA received lots of positive press for its revolutionary idea to incorporate Native American, Mayan, Aztec, Inca, Caribbean, and Central and South American arts into an integrated “Arts of the Americas” Wing, something that I gather no major museum has ever done before. But, even so, the Native American arts are still in the basement, the contemporary American artworks up on the fourth floor, reaching up towards the sky. My father made the excellent observation that objectively, scientifically, none of this really necessarily means anything; but, nevertheless, it is widely accepted among art historians and others specializing in theory and discourse of this sort that these kinds of things do have certain discursive implications. Yes, sure, it makes sense to do things chronologically, from pre-Columbian to post-contact, to Colonial, to 18th, 19th, 20th, and 21st centuries. But in the process of doing so, I am sorry to say, you are reproducing hints or implications of the same discourses of indigenous peoples being frozen in the past, or lacking in history, that are at the center of the colonialistic/Orientalist attitudes that have been attracting criticism for decades now…

….

I felt terribly rushed, unfortunately, in my visit, as I didn’t make it out to the museum until 1pm or so, and they decided to close early, around 4pm, on account of the Snowpocalypse. So, I really did not get to explore and investigate and engage with the new galleries as I would have liked to, but really only managed to touch the surface, run around and get a glimpse, a taste.

After a few hours in the Chinese galleries, I entered the Arts of the Americas Wing in the basement. Presumably, you’re meant to enter at the ground floor, where Paul Revere welcomes you to the section for the arts of colonial New England, but nevertheless, there was an entrance there in the basement, and a rather prominent one; it’s not like I came in through a weird back side secondary entrance – I just want to be clear about that, so you understand the context of my next statement.

Upon entering this brand new, much lauded American Art Wing, my first impression should have been “impressive.” But it was not. It was “confusion.” I appreciate the discursive and political desire to blur or eliminate the boundary between “American Art” and “Art of the Americas,” by juxtaposing, for example, the Native American gallery with the maritime art (read: model ships and paintings of ships) gallery, but really, more than anything it just feels disjointed and confusing. Sure, there is a logic to that juxtaposition – these are the ships of exploration, the ships of colonization and conquest that chronologically and thematically mark the end of the Pre-Columbian Era and the Pre-Columbian civilizations. But, while the Native American gallery may itself be organized logically into sections for Plains Indians, the American Southwest, the Pacific Northwest, etc., the juxtaposition of this with “Embroidery of Colonial Boston” just does not seem to work.

Say what you want about the value of discursive thematics – such as the juxtaposition of colonial and colonized – but as a museum visitor, trying to find my way to certain works or certain periods by looking at hints in certain rooms (similar, or dissimilar? too early, or too late?), I feel totally lost.

If you’re going to shove all the Arts of the Americas all together, why not shove all the Arts of Asia together? Does that really make less sense?

…

The desire to include contemporary works mixed in with traditional ones in the Native American gallery is an interesting one. It is certainly something we have discussed ad nauseum in my excessively indigenous-cultures-oriented Museum Studies course in Hawaii – the desire to combat Orientalist discourses by showing indigenous peoples as not frozen in the past, and as possessing a vital, active, contemporary presence and membership in fully modern society. Yet, I could not help but feel that their inclusion shifted the feel of the entire exhibit such that it felt like it was entirely an exhibit about contemporary culture, and how contemporary Native life today relates to or engages with history and tradition. This sets it apart sharply from the rest of the American Art (that is to say, the colonial and US art), which is more explicitly historical.

Right: “Raven Steals the Moon”. 2002. Preston Singletary (b. 1963, American – Tlingit). 19.5 x 6 in. Blown glass & sandblasted design.

Looking at the contemporary pieces more closely, I find one that I quite like. “Raven Steals the Moon” is a fine example of a contemporary piece that fits right in, feeling right at home among more traditional artifacts. It reflects that traditions, or at least some knowledge and appreciation of traditions, is still alive. It feels to me precisely like the Pacific Northwest Native American equivalent of Nihonga or Neo-Nihonga paintings in Japan – assuredly modern, but at the same time very much reflecting an awareness of, a knowledge of, an appreciation for, and a continuation from, historical traditional art forms.

By contrast, abstract oil paintings that refer more to contemporary politics, to suffering under colonialism, imperialism, conquest, etc etc seem terribly out of place to me – confrontational and accusatory. As politically incorrect as it may be for me to say it, I cannot help but to look at these stereotypical images (horses, buffalo) and wonder just how much true connection they have to these native cultures, and how much they are simply being used, deployed, employed, appropriated for political purposes. It feels cheesy and forced, like you’re trying to claim a heritage already lost. Unlike Singletary’s piece, which seems to reflect genuine knowledge and genuine tradition, these appropriate Orientalist stereotypes as if they were the real thing, the real Native American identity, worn proudly though it is hardly the real thing.

…

But enough about discursive matters, politics and Orientalism, post-colonial theory and all that. Running out of time, I flitted through two more floors (missing the topmost contemporary art floor entirely), and have only a few more things to say. Number one, simply an observation that the doors to the new wing click when opened, like they’re not just hanging there but have an actual fully closed position. It seems a longshot as I sit here typing it, but at the time it seemed to me quite logical to infer that perhaps this was part of an improved conservation system – the doors close completely, for climate control. Or maybe they don’t. It was just a thought.

Video screens and a few vitrines at the Behind the Scenes exhibit. The screens face out towards a huge bank of windows looking out over the Fenway, and a couch is provided for you to sit and relax, look out the windows, and take a break. All of this is around the corner and on the opposite side of thick walls from the main American Art exhibits – a quiet spot to get away from the crowds and the lights for a moment.

Also, hiding around a corner, facing out the windows, away from the main exhibits, is a small set of exhibits entitled “Behind the Scenes.” You cannot imagine how excited I was to discover this. Firstly, it’s just a wonderful, brilliant design decision, creating this very cozy, quiet space where one can study, or just sit and talk, get away from the crowds for a minute, and stare out the window, mere feet away from the gallery but totally removed from it.

And I *love* the idea of a behind the scenes gallery at a museum. Maybe I’m in the minority, maybe it’s my interest in museums to begin with that makes me hardly the typical visitor. But I am fascinated by the idea of them sharing how the museum staff decide what to collect and to obtain (i.e. what to accession), sharing how the new galleries were installed (beautiful photos and videos relate this on a series of video screens), and granting the visitor a glimpse of conservation issues, problems, decisions, policies, and processes. What to do with a chair that was nearly destroyed in a house fire but which would otherwise have been a fantastic artifact of 18th century New England colonial furniture styles? Is it fit for display? Do we risk risky conservation efforts? What do we do with a painting that was restored, with 20th century museum staff “correcting” or “fixing” details such as a hand by painting over it? Do we un-restore it back to a more original form that betrays the poor condition of the work but reveals more of the original forms and shapes?

…

I had hoped to return to the MFA the following day, to more thoroughly, slowly, engage with the gallery, explore it and give more thought to it and to other exhibits, but I was ruined by the Snowmageddon which struck the Northeast that night (Sunday 12/26 into Monday 12/27). I look forward to going back in the summer, though the Chinese exhibit “Fresh Ink” will be long gone by then…

Meanwhile, the Boston Globe has put up a beautiful mini-site full of graphics and short articles about the planning and creation of this new wing. It does, apparently, though, require registration to the website, which should be free. I am hoping to at some point go through these materials and put together a more serious and organized blog post about the expansion, since there really is so much material to work from here; but, I’m already behind on things I want to post about, so we’ll see…

All photos taken myself, at the Museum. With the exception of the photo of “Raven Steals the Moon,” from the MFA’s online catalog.

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For The Love of Prints

At some point, I don’t remember when, I sort of lost interest in Japanese ukiyo-e woodblock prints. Though I pride myself on being able to recognize and distinguish a Kiyonaga, Harunobu, Torii, Utamaro, Sharaku or Utagawa at a glance, all in all, they are more similar – all reflecting the ukiyo-e style – than they are different, and I guess I was just struck by a realization that there’s not that much to talk about stylistically, and that if I were to specialize in prints, I could potentially become quite tired of them quite quickly.

Now, none of the above is necessarily true. It’s just sort of a thought I had. There are of course stylistic differences that one can appreciate and study and talk about.

Visiting the MFA a few weeks ago, I was reminded what it is I love about prints. I was at the time in the midst of reading James Cahill’s book The Lyric Journey. He discusses Chinese ink landscape paintings, and Japanese ones of a very particular time and style, discussing at length their lyrical quality or lack thereof, and how some painters, in some schools, in some periods, were far more successful than others in achieving this quality (the others, for the most part, weren’t trying, and in fact heavily criticized the former group for valuing such a depiction). Looking past the actual scene depicted to the way it is depicted, the composition and balance, the use of brushstrokes… I just couldn’t get it.

And so, there I was in the prints gallery, looking at the labels and the way these images are approached, discussed, described, and I was instantly reminded of what it was that made me fall in love with these prints to begin with, during my internship at the MFA. Maybe it’s just the particular approach of Sarah Thompson, MFA Asst Curator of Japanese Prints, not something inherent in the prints themselves, nor perhaps the approach common or popular in the art world at large, but ukiyo-e prints, moreso than paintings or other formats, lend themselves to an approach that focuses not so much on style, but much more on what is being depicted. It is through ukiyo-e prints that we can gain, and deploy, an encyclopedic knowledge of sumo wrestlers, kabuki plays, actors, and characters, geisha and courtesans, fashions, famous places, and, of course, artists and publishers.

With a painting, arguably, it’s all about interpretation of the style, much more so than what is depicted. Sure, the subject does enter into it, as does the biography of the painter. But for the most part, it’s really about the stylistic decisions made by the artist, the abstract forms, compositional balance, and all of that, the brushstrokes, and the overall feeling or impression or impact the work makes. And one can easily grow too specialized in painting, itself.

Right: The actor Nakamura Shikan IV as the wrestler Tomigorô from the series “A Modern Suikoden” by Utagawa Kunisada, 1861. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 11.29906

Prints, by contrast, cater to the diversity of my interests and to my inability to remain interested in any given topic for too long, flitting as I do constantly from one thing to another to another. It is through the study of prints that we are able to satisfy our desires, our interests, our tastes, for everything from kabuki to courtesan fashions to the architecture and layout of Edo. In looking a painting, we might become frustrated or bored with our inability to really see, and appreciate, the stylistic decisions and compositional balance and all of that. But in looking at a print such as this one, we are learning not only about prints and their style and their production in the early 1860s, not only about Toyokuni III (aka Kunisada) and the Utagawa school, not only about how heroes and stories were represented in popular visual media, but also about the Suikoden, the character Tomigorô, and the actor Nakamura Shikan IV themselves.

Above: “Oniwakamaru and the Giant Carp,” by Totoya Hokkei, c. 1830-1835. Surimono print. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston 11.20613

Here is a print by Totoya Hokkei, depicting Oniwakamaru. Rather than only appreciating it for its style, for Hokkei’s compositional decisions, and for the glorious way mica or silver or something is used to give the water a sparkly shiny quality, we can look at it and say “Ah, Oniwakamaru! I know him. That’s Benkei as a boy. The same Benkei who later fights Yoshitsune on Gojô Bridge in such-and-such a print and such-and-such a play; the same Benkei who we see in the kabuki play Kanjinchô. I’ve seen him played by Nakamura Hashinosuke III and also by Kataoka Nizaemon XV…” And you can draw connections. You can use the prints as a jumping-off point to learn about history, legends, and stories, such as those surrounding Benkei, and from there, you might investigate and learn more about Yoshitsune, the great legendary general to whom Benkei was a loyal retainer, and about the historical and less-than-historical stories about him, the plays that feature him, the actors who have played him and in which ways, all while remaining in and never straying too far from the world of prints.

I have myself already learned to recognize a number of actors’ crests, and crests of major kabuki theatres, as well as recognizing certain characters and plays by the costuming. I look forward to the day I can recognize different ranks of courtesans by their clothes and hairdos, and be able to identify the different hairdos (e.g. the Shimada), and to date depictions based on that (e.g. the Shimada was only popular from X year to Y year).

Unlike ink paintings (which, do not get me wrong, are beautiful and fascinating in their own way) which only provide a limited glimpse into the world of Edo period painters, prints provide glimpses into a far wider, broader, range of aspects and elements of Edo period history, popular culture, and city life. And it is for that reason, combined with my preference towards encyclopedic knowledge, that I love a prints exhibit that can really highlight the actor Kikugorô V, the legendary warrior Shi Jin, the popular novel Suikoden, the courtesan Hanaôgi of the Ôgiya, and the Noh play Hagoromo, along with Edo period methods of law enforcement (punishment), the popular practice of tattooing a lover’s name on your arm, and the existence of carnival-like presentations of life-size dolls or mannequins dressed and positioned as legendary heroes as an attraction in the streets of Edo, all in the course of an exhibition nominally about tattoos in ukiyo-e. Were this an exhibit of ink paintings, we might learn a lot about ink paintings, and might see some truly stunning works, but we might not learn much at all about anything outside of the world of ink paintings.

All images copyright Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I was going to use my own photos taken in the galleries myself, in accordance with museum policy which allows photography for personal and non-commercial purposes, such as this blog is, but thought that the museum might appreciate its collections being depicted in the most positive light – i.e. better quality photography than my own. If the museum would prefer that I use my own, poorly lit, somewhat blurry photos, or no photos at all, to illustrate and discuss its beautiful collection, please let me know and I would be happy to oblige.

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Upcoming: Clifton Karhu Talks in Boston

I believe I have posted about Clifton Karhu before. Originally from Minnesota, Karhu moved to Japan later in life, taking up residence in Kyoto and in Kanazawa, and became an accomplished printer, producing prints with a distinctive contemporary style, but of traditional subjects, and, an especial rarity these days, carved in the traditional manner.

Karhu passed away a few years ago, but Norman Tolman continues to sell his prints, to hold shows of his works, and to donate prints as well to prominent museums such as the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

When I first was introduced to Mr. Karhu’s work by Mr. Tolman, at his gallery just outside Shiba Daimon, I was stunned not only by the images themselves, but by the whole story and personality behind them. It is inspiring to think that a foreigner could become so involved – and well respected, so far as I know – in traditional arts, or, that is, contemporary arts closed related to traditional arts, and could be so successful at living in Japan. I of course wish the same for myself; how wonderful it would be to live in a place like Kyoto or Kanazawa, and to be accepted as a respected member of the local community and the arts community.

Since Mr. Karhu’s death, of course, his works have risen in price as the supply shrinks. They are truly compelling works, speaking volumes about the importance of traditional arts and culture, traditional environments and atmosphere created (maintained) through the maintenance and appreciation of traditional architecture, etc.

I regret that I cannot be there myself, but Mr. Tolman will be giving a talk at Showa Boston Institute, 420 Pond Street, in Boston, on December 7th, from 5-8pm. [Do you suppose he picked Pearl Harbor Day by coincidence?] The talk will focus mainly on the work of Toko Shinoda, and sadly it does not appear that Showa Boston is at all easily accessible via the T, but I am told that the Museum of Fine Arts will be displaying many of Karhu’s prints at some point around this time as well.

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Siege of the Sanjô Palace

I feel a fool. I passed by signs and stone markers for the Sanjô Palace on more than one occasion, and though I took photos of them, I didn’t really give it a second thought, failing to recognize or realize the identity or importance of the site. I saw a model of the palace at the Museum of Kyoto (京都文化博物館), took photos of that, appreciated the opportunity to see an example of Heian period shinden-zukuri architecture, of which the Byôdôin may be the only remaining full-size, authentic, example, and still did not put it together. It was only later, while labeling photos and reading the sign which I previously had only photographed and not read, that I had the realization.

Above: All that remains today of the Sanjô Palace is this stone marker, just outside the Shinpûkan, a very modern (and quite pleasant and attractive) shopping / cultural center in a repurposed Meiji period red brick building. A wooden sign standing next to the stone briefly describes the history of the palace.

The Siege of the Sanjô Palace took place in early 1160, and marked the primary action of the Heiji Rebellion. Minamoto no Yoshitomo, along with Fujiwara no Nobuyori and about five hundred warriors, attacked the palace, kidnapping Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa and setting the palace aflame.

Image copyright Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Usage is intended under fair use; I claim no ownership or rights to this image.

The attack is depicted in a quite famous handscroll painting, the “Night Attack on the Sanjô Palace” (三条殿焼討), in the collection of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and of which I happen to have a modern reproduction. The whole scroll can be viewed online at a great site run by Bowdoin University. One source (admittedly published by the Museum, though nevertheless quite trustworthy and reliable, I would say) describes the scroll as “universally considered the most powerful battle scene in all of Japanese art.”

And powerful it is. The handscroll format allows events to unfold in a chronological, storytelling-like manner. The viewer first sees a crowd of warriors, some on foot, some on horseback, some holding bows, along with a number of wheeled oxcarts, rushing to the left. They reach the gates of the palace, and already, in a lower register, we begin to see fighting. Scrolling just the tiniest bit further (from right to left, as Japanese scrolls traditionally are read), at the top of the image, we already begin to see smoke and flame. The battle is fierce; heads are chopped off, and by the end of the scroll, we see them displayed atop pikes. The Emperor is captured and taken away, and the palace burned down; the description of the flames in this 13th century work is really incredible.

As with any work, or event, or period, I cannot claim that I solely, or primarily, claim connection to it, let alone ownership of it as a subject of research or anything like that. For such a famous work, I am sure there are plenty of people who feel a special connection to it, and many with more reason than I. Still, this work, and the historical events behind it (the very first Wikipedia entries I ever wrote were on the Genpei War, which developed out of the aftermath of this conflict), are fairly special to me, and so I am surprised at myself for not recognizing the Sanjô Palace as being *that* Sanjô Palace, when I came across the model, and the site itself.

A model of the Sanjô Palace, on display at the Museum of Kyoto as an example of Heian period shinden-zukuri architecture. Click through for a more thorough description of this form of architecture, and for other photos relating to this model.

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Quick Link: NYT Highlights Young Curators

An article in the New York Times today highlights the “new guard” of curators – a group of men and women in their 30s, who through a combination of talent and fortune, have found themselves in relatively major positions at some of the most prestigious museums in the country. Can you tell I’m envious? Certainly, I hope to be “curator” before I’m 40, but at the same time, I’m almost 30, and don’t feel at all prepared to take on such duties and responsibilities; more to the point, I don’t feel that anyone would be willing to take a chance on me, as it were, and entrust me with such a position.

In any case, these young curators are shaking things up, and bringing in new and exciting ideas.

According to other articles I read years ago, when he was a bit newer to the job, Hao Sheng, when he became curator of Chinese art at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, brought a fresh perspective that allowed certain collectors and other figures, disenchanted with the museum for whatever reason, to be brought back into the fold. Collectors who had had a falling out with the previous curator (who I do not mean to disparage, as I am sure he did a marvelous job, and as I don’t know any of the details of these spats or disputes) for whatever reason, now have come back and donated or sold objects to the museum, and lent objects for exhibitions, something they would not have done before.

Sometimes I feel the news makes too much of new faces; as if there have never been new people in the industry before. As if the faces aren’t changing all the time, which they are. I don’t believe there is any particular shake-up going on right now, any more so than last year, or next year, five or ten years ago, or five or ten years from now. But that doesn’t mean that things aren’t exciting.

I look forward to the day that I can be a young curator, introducing my own ideas, and making my name in the art world.

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New Arts of the Americas Wing at the MFA

The New York Times reports today on the new “Art of the Americas” wing which has been in the planning at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston for many years, and which is scheduled to finally open this November. I regret that I won’t have a chance to visit it until the following summer.

The design and concept of the new wing is revolutionary, in that it aims to show all the arts of the Americas – from Mayan ceramics to Jackson Pollack in one gallery, emphasizing a particular attitude of American identity that looks south, from the United States (and Canada) to Latin America, crafting a complex set of narratives linking these times and places.

I am certainly excited to see it, as I have no doubt that it will be extremely well-done, architecturally stunning, totally up-to-date in style and features, and yet totally in keeping with the architectural character of the museum as a whole. The renovation overhaul of much of the rest of the building a few years ago was executed superbly, and I am sure this addition will be as well. They’re even using stone from the same quarry used when the museum was originally built 100 years ago.

However, and I feel bad to say it, as I have nothing but the utmost love and respect for the MFA – it’s one of my favorite museums, and working there would be an absolute dream job – I cannot help but believe that this approach reflects a politically correct attitude that doesn’t actually reflect the US we live in.

As the article points out, ‘when the Met opened the first American Wing, in 1924, she said, “that was the year of the most severe restrictions against immigrants in the United States.” The Met wing was conceived, in part, as an antidote to “this sense that the Anglo-American heritage of the United States was being lost,” Ms. Davis said.’

Today, by contrast, there seems to be an attitude of political correctness that equates American culture/identity/voices with African-American and/or Latino (Hispanic) culture/identity/voices. I am sure that in many parts of the country, and in many communities, from the South to the Southwest, it may be very easy to get that impression. But the America I know, the NY I grew up in, is a place that owes just as much, if not more, to British-, Irish-, German-, Jewish-, Chinese-, Japanese-, Indian-, and Arab-Americans as it does to Latinos and blacks. Sure, I grew up around bodegas, learned Spanish in high school, and had my first tacos, nachos, and burritos before I ever knew what sushi was. But I don’t believe that our country’s history and culture is any more intimately tied to pre-Columbian or Latin American culture than it is to the cultures of the rest of the world.

Perhaps I am jumping the gun and being too harsh. The article does, after all, mention that Sargent and Copley will have their own dedicated sections, and that other sections will be devoted to works inspired by the Grand Tour (of Europe), and to Art Deco. Furthermore, Boston has a particularly rich Colonial British and maritime history, which is sure to be not overlooked.

I just hope that this new Art of the Americas Wing will highlight the art and culture of a wide diversity of American artists, and will not seek to craft a false narrative of the US as a Latin American or African-American country, because that would be just as reactionary, and ultimately incorrect, a stance as the 1924 Anglo-American-focused Metropolitan effort.

At least they’re cognizant of this, and admit it openly:
“Ms. Davis said that the approach was not without risks. “There is a certain amount of fear sometimes about being out on the forefront, trying something new,” she said. “I think you have to be bold and say, ‘This is our view.’ Down the road, in another generation, they’ll have another view.””

Looking forward to it. The MFA remains one of my favorite museums, and every exhibit season that I am away from it, I truly feel I am missing out.

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NYT: Time-Traveling with the Muses in Boston

Image (c) Richard Perry, New York Times.

Holland Cotter, one of the chief art critics for the New York Times, a man whose name has appeared on a great many articles I have read, reminisces today about his childhood and teenage years exploring the museums of Boston. For some reason, I feel like I want to describe this article as a “love letter” to the cultural atmosphere of the Fenway (i.e. the Museum of Fine Arts, and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum a few blocks away), though I know those words are not quite right. His words are nostalgic, romantic, and caring, the kind of thing you’d expect perhaps in a memoir – or in the preface to a history of the museum – and not in a daily newspaper which is meant to be reporting on the newest news of the art world.

He describes quite beautifully what I have myself strove to express on numerous occasions about the special feeling one has in these two museums. Had I never interned at the MFA, I nevertheless may have (perhaps; I can’t really know for sure) developed the same fondness for the museum, and its neighbor, along with a sense of belonging. I have been fortunate to visit a number of great museums, and while if the opportunity were to be offered me to become curator at the Metropolitan, Smithsonian, Tokyo National Museum, British Museum, or the like, I would almost certainly take it, the MFA is truly the dream job.

Yes, the MFA does have one of the best (if not *the* best) Japanese art collection in the world, an excellent Chinese collection, a nearly unparalleled Egyptian collection, and fine collections in many other areas. But it is, as Cotter describes it, something about the way the Victorian/Gilded Age atmosphere somehow lives on in the building… a warmth, a sense of cultural activity… that truly makes the museum feel welcoming, homey, bright and exciting. The displays are as modern as any you’ll see in another museum – the MFA is not an artifact of a past age as the Gardner is, nor does it feel dusty and old as the Ashmolean did last time I was there, roughly five years ago (I hear it’s seen considerable renovations since then) – but the history is nevertheless there, in a nearly tangible way. Combined with the Gardner Museum, and the Peabody-Essex in Salem, a short distance away by train or car, and with the general cultural/historical atmosphere of certain parts of Boston (certain aspects of Boston life), it all just seems so much more… more like what a museum atmosphere, museum experience, ought to be, in my mind. Not old, dusty, dark, but also not too new and shiny and modern. Romantic, nostalgic, reminiscent of the high culture of opera or ballet but without being so inaccessible. As our world continues to move further into the realm of concrete, steel, asphalt, wires, and the digital – as metaphorically embodied by certain aspects of the atmosphere or flavor of Tokyo and New York – the MFA, and in some ways Greater Boston more widely, stands as a living, active, dynamic, still fresh monument to the colorful, flavorful, sensuous worlds of the past.

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Japanese National Treasures in the US: Ever Again?

In skimming through a handful of snippets from the MFA Bulletin in search of more information on Kôjirô Tomita’s life and career, I just came across a description he gave of an exhibition held at the MFA in Nov-Dec 1953, of art treasures on loan from Japan.

I am not particularly familiar with the ins and outs and intricate details of the history of policies involving National Treasures and the loan or export of such objects, nor of all the issues, discussions, and controversy surrounding such matters today, but suffice it to say that I was amazed – truly, floored – at the objects included in this exhibition, knowing that under current policies, it is extremely extremely unlikely that any of these objects will ever be seen on exhibition overseas (i.e. here in the US). These are objects that can be found in any Japanese art history textbook; images with which any scholar or student of Japanese art would be familiar, and with which the vast majority of Japanese might also be expected to be familiar. These are the Mona Lisas of Japanese art – and while the Mona Lisa is on permanent display in a museum accessible to the public, outside of its home country (remember, Da Vinci was Italian; the Louvre is in France), the great majority of the most famous and most treasured Japanese works of art are held by Buddhist temples, who rarely if ever put them on display.

I fully understand and appreciate concerns about conservation issues, about the potential (the possibility is always there) for loss, should the airplane crash or some other disaster befall the artworks, … but without getting into it too much, suffice it to say that I get the distinct impression that all in all the Japanese government has in recent years or recent decades tightened up their restrictions on overseas loans to a far greater extent than is considered reasonable by many Western museum professionals (curators of Japanese art, etc.).

Shaka Nyorai, Jingô-ji

Yamagoshi Raigô (Descent of Amida Bodhisattva over the Mountains), Kômyô-ji

Chôjû-jinbutsu-giga, Kôzanji

Ban Dainagon Ekotoba, Idemitsu Museum (previously owned by the family of the daimyo of Obama domain.)

Kitano Tenjin Engi Emaki, Kitano Tenmangû

Portrait of Minamoto no Yoritomo, attri. Fujiwara no Takanobu, Jingô-ji

Raijin and Fûjin (Thunder God & Wind God), Tawaraya Sôtatsu, Kennin-ji

Cheers to those who were able to see this amazing exhibition in 1953. Or, perhaps, cheers to us in 2010, who can view all these objects right here, on the Internet, and who can more easily than ever travel to Japan, where we can see tons of other artworks, if not these particular ones.

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