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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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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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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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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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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Discovering Kôjirô Tomita

I imagine it difficult to work with any collection, or indeed to work at a museum in almost any capacity, without becoming familiar with a number of names of prominent donors, former directors, former staff members, etc. In most cases, these people will be of provincial significance, prominent perhaps in the history of your museum, your town, or the wider area, but not really at all beyond that. However, sometimes these names are in fact of great significance, within the niche field of the history of the art world (or the more obscure niche field of, for example, the historiography among American scholars of Japanese art) at least.

As an intern at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, I was myself introduced to quite a number of these names, who I would soon discover are truly giants in the field (however obscure and niche that field may be). You can hardly discuss the art world in Meiji Japan – let alone the world of Asian Art in Boston at that time – without touching upon Ernest Fenollosa and Okakura Kakuzo, Edward S. Morse being a close runner-up. In looking through object files, archived correspondence, and material accessible to any member of the public – such as gallery labels and published catalogs – I quickly came to recognize a handful of names which came up time and again, some former directors or curators, some prominent donors, and some not so directly associated with the museum, but prominent figures in Boston social circles and in the art world. Denman Ross. Isabella Stewart Gardner, John LaFarge. Even today, years later, I can remember many of these names without having to go back and look them up in any way. William Sturgis Bigelow. Charles Goddard Weld. John Ellerton Lodge. Ananda Coomaraswamy. Robert Treat Paine. Jan Fontein.

… and then there was Kôjirô Tomita. I must admit, I don’t remember too clearly what I heard about him, or where I came across the name, but, as with the other names, his was one which simply came up time and again. He was curator of Asian Art during the War, and for some time before and after that, though I was never fully clear on the dates of his service (read: employment). I knew that he was held in high regard, and if I remember correctly, the current Japanese art curator either worked closely with him, or at least met him on at least one occasion. I grew curious to learn more about him, but figured that it was unlikely anyone had written much about Tomita, let alone a full biography; after all, it is a rare scholar to whom is devoted such attention, particularly when their life and career are more recent.

I never cease to be amazed by the amount of books, journal articles, etc out there written about Okakura, his life, career, and attitudes. The same cannot be said of Tomita.

Certainly, if one were to delve into back issues of the Museum Bulletin and other such sources, one could find bits and pieces here and there, and one might even get lucky and happen upon an issue containing a brief biography, or his obituary. If one were to delve into the museum’s archives, then certainly one could find out more, though as someone with some limited experience with museum archives, I can assure you they’re rarely the treasure trove one expects them to be. But, as someone who has moved away from Boston, with limited access to such provincial/local sources as the museum bulletins, never mind the museum’s archives (incidentally, I am pleasantly surprised to discover that some of the MFA Bulletins and other such documents dating back to what is now in the public domain can be found in full on Google Books), I decided to shelve the idea for the time being, keeping an eye out for anything that might come up.

But then, yesterday, I happened upon an article addressing the contrasting views of Okakura and his student, Tomita, on various matters – without getting too much into it, suffice it to say, issues relating to nationalist discourses, intellectual authority, and how Okakura and Tomita saw themselves in their roles as art scholars and cultural interpreters. The article included a brief biography of Tomita, the first I’ve ever come across. I was surprised to discover that this gentleman, who was alive and active somewhat recently (passing away in 1976, a full 63 years after Okakura), and with whom the current curator had worked or at least spoken, was a direct student of Okakura’s. Even though I still know relatively little about him and his work, on this basis alone I should think it fair to say that Tomita was not simply an interim curator, not just an influential or prominent scholar, but truly someone who bridged the generations. While in a great many respects the department, the museum, the art world, and the world in general, have changed dramatically over the last century, it is amazing sometimes how all that time – and all those events and developments – can be spanned in just a few generations.

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A Brief Biography

Tomita first came to the United States in 1906, on a government scholarship, at the age of 16. Like many other Japanese sent by their government to the West in the Meiji period (1868-1912), he was there to study Western industrialization, and to bring his expertise back to Japan. He was also there to promote Japanese lacquerware. This was a time of great modernization, Westernization, and industrialization for Japan, but it was also a time when the West was very much interested in Japanese (so-called) decorative arts.

After completing his obligations to the government, he was hired in 1909 by Okakura to aid in translation and research efforts at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. It was right around this time that the core or foundation of what is today arguably the largest or greatest collection of Japanese art under one roof was being established. Okakura and Fenollosa had played a major role in establishing the canon of Japanese painting and sculpture, and hundreds if not thousands of objects they obtained would be formally donated to the museum in 1911. Edward S. Morse, who had traveled to Japan originally out of interest in marine zoology, and the rare or exotic molluscs of Japan which could not be found in the West, contributed a considerable collection of Japanese ceramics and porcelains which remains famous today. To the extent that he is known at all, I gather that Tomita is most known for his efforts and contributions as curator, in later decades; but, here he was, at a most exciting time in the development of the study & appreciation of Asian art in the US, rubbing elbows with the likes of Okakura, Fenollosa, Morse, and Bigelow, and working directly with objects quite new at that time to art historical analysis, to a canon, to the museum world, to the West, which are today some of the most famous and prominent pieces outside of Japan.

In 1910, Tomita took a one-year leave of absence to represent Japan at the Japan-British Exposition at White City in London, after which he returned to Boston. It is strangely easy to forget quite often how these things intermingle – and, of course, this intermingling is one of the most intriguing and exciting things about history. One learns about the history of art within Japan, the history of the Asiatic department at the MFA, and the history of Japan’s involvement in International Expositions all around the same time, and one is strangely inclined to not connect the dots, and to see these as parallel narratives, never meeting or crossing. But, of course, they did cross. I’d be most interested to learn more about Tomita at this exposition – what talks he gave, what other prominent figures he might have met and what they might have discussed; his impressions of London, and his impressions of British attitudes towards Japan and Japanese art. … Okakura, similarly, attended the 1904 St Louis World’s Fair, where he gave talks and was otherwise involved in a prominent way.

When Okakura died in 1913, Tomita stayed on at the Museum. He became assistant curator in 1916, began taking on greater responsibilities in 1921 when John Ellerton Lodge, head of the department, was appointed head of the Freer Gallery at the Smithsonian and began to take frequent and lengthy absences from Boston. Tomita was promoted to full curator in 1931, and though he faced deportation in the 1940s along with most, if not all Japanese citizens resident in the US, the intervention of certain influential contacts led to his being allowed to stay.

At least in his early years in the US, he followed Okakura’s example in wearing kimono to public appearances. Though Japanese in their home country had almost entirely shifted to wearing Western clothing, which they saw as representative of modernity and class, Okakura believed, correctly, that Americans would see Tomita and himself as more authentic representatives of Japan, more authentic Japanese cultural experts, if they dressed in the traditional manner. However, Tomita diverged dramatically from his mentor in his attitudes towards Westernization in Japan, the place of Japan in the world, the role of Westerners as experts in Japanese art, and other such topics. I am beginning to learn that Okakura, celebrated though he may be for his expertise, and for his great contributions to the field of Japanese art, esp. to awareness and appreciation of Japanese art and culture in the United States, was actually a rather staunch nationalist. Though it has been said that he never would have intended his words to be used as justification for Japan’s militarist and imperialist expansion into Asia, and war against the (Western) Allied Powers in the 1930s-40s, he apparently believed quite strongly in a Japanese cultural superiority, and played an active role in crafting, perpetuating and disseminating imperialist and colonialist discourse at the St Louis World’s Fair, where great efforts were made in the Japanese displays to represent Japan as a modern imperialist power equal to the Western powers, at the expense of the Ainu, Okinawans, Koreans, Chinese, and others who were explicitly represented as culturally and racially inferior, and as a military power, winning victories in the Russo-Japanese War even as the Fair went on. Okakura was also apparently an advocate of the idea that only Japanese can fully appreciate and understand Japanese culture, and that white people cannot ever be authorities on the subject – an attitude which sadly continues to be espoused by many Japanese today.

By contrast, Tomita is described as believing in a universality of art – that Japanese and Westerners are ultimately both members of that which we call mankind, and that aesthetics are universal. He envisioned a more cosmopolitan and international Japan – one which absorbs and adopts the best parts of foreign cultures without losing its own, something Okakura very much feared and warned against.

As I have not yet taken the time today just yet to seek out any more information, the rest of Tomita’s story remains quite vague in my mind. How long did he stay at the MFA? The history of the museum, the department and collection, and Tomita’s contributions during these middle decades of the 20th century are a complete blank in my mind. I am curious, and shall keep my eyes open… hopefully, it won’t be another 5 years before I happen upon a book or article which reveals more.

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*Chen, Constance J.S. “Transnational Orientals: Scholars of Art, National Discourses, and the Question of Intellectual Authority.” Journal of Asian American Studies. 9:3 (October 2006). pp215-242.

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MFA Highlights – Art of Japan

I still have lots I’ve yet to talk about from my Boston trip – chiefly, the Isabella Stewart Gardner’s Journeys East exhibition, and the MFA Showa Sophistication exhibit. I’m almost done reading James McClain‘s book on Kanazawa, so I’ll post about that soon, too.

But today, I’d like to talk about the new book MFA Highlights: Art of Japan, by Anne Nishimura Morse, Joe Earle, Rachel Saunders, and Sarah Thompson, which was just published a few months ago. At only $25 for 250 pages of full-color descriptions of a well-distributed sampling of the MFA’s amazing collection, I think it’s among the most reasonably priced art books I’ve ever seen. Softcover, perfect bound, gives the book a good feel in your hands and on your shelf.

The Museum of Fine Arts Boston has the largest collection of Japanese art under one roof anywhere in the world, including a number of pieces of incredible historical and artistic significance, which would quite likely be designated National Treasures or at least Important Cultural Properties were they to return to Japan. This book does a fine job of showcasing these pieces, including an 1189 statue of Miroku by Kaikei, a handscroll painting of the Siege of the Sanjô Palace (from the Heiji Monogatari Emaki), a folding screen of “Waves at Matsushima” by Ogata Kôrin, and a narrative handscroll (emakimono) of Kibi Daijin’s Journey to China.

It also does an excellent job of featuring a wide variety of big names in Japanese art, though it would obviously be impossible to not leave anyone out. Still, the book includes work by Kaikei, Soga Shôhaku and Itô Jakuchû, Kanô Motonobu, Tan’yû and Hôgai, Hokusai, Hiroshige, Harunobu, Shiba Kôkan (though, nothing by Harushige), Kuniyoshi, Murakami Takashi, and Morimura Yasumasa, and does so, more often than not, by treating the reader to works other than those for which the artist is most famous. Hokusai is easily one of the most famous names in Japanese woodblock prints, and the museum could have chosen to feature the Great Wave or any number of other famous prints; but the museum is also lucky to have a number of exquisite paintings by the master, and so chose one of those, a stunning image of a woman looking at herself in the mirror, in addition to two prints. They have also included a beautiful painting by Katsushika Ôi, Hokusai’s daughter. I’ll bet you didn’t know he had a daughter, or that she was a painter; we hear very little about female artists in pre-20th century Japanese art history, so this was a most welcome inclusion.

Most exciting for me, however, in going through this book, is the personal connection I feel to the objects, the museum, and all the people involved in creating this text. Over the course of my internship at the MFA, I became intimately familiar (okay, maybe not “intimately” but quite familiar) with many of these works. I think anyone who is an art enthusiast will appreciate what I mean when I talk about works that you feel a particular connection to, works that are in some way in your mind or in your heart “yours” even though they’re owned by museums, and you actually have no more connection to it than countless others do. Many of the works in this book are that for me. This internship, in fact, provided the foundation of my knowledge of Japanese art history; I’d never had the opportunity to take any Japanese art history courses in college beyond the most introductory level, and so it is through these works of art that I acquired my understanding of the differences between Kanô and Rinpa, Harunobu and Chikanobu, Jakuchu and Taiga.

For me, this book is not purely an art book, yet another “highlights of the collection” book, but a journey in nostalgia, and a fantastic source of reminders on all the artworks that formed the foundation of my Japanese art historical knowledge. I look forward to choosing works from this book for future Spotlight posts.

All images are the property of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and are linked directly to the Museum’s public Collections Database. Fair use is intended to the full extent possible; I make no claims of ownership of or rights to these images.

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Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Having just returned from a museum-heavy journey to Boston, I have tons to talk about; hopefully this will make up for having not posted in a full month.

I’m really glad to have been able to go at this time, and to catch all the great exhibits that were up right now. Though, that said, Boston area museums, and the MFA in particular, always have fantastic exhibits, so any time is good. Living in New York, one would think that I’d have so many opportunities to see so much more, do so much more than elsewhere, for example, in Boston. But while there certainly is a lot going on in New York at any given time, and there are tons of institutions you won’t find elsewhere – like the Rubin Museum, which is devoted to Himalayan art – there is no major overall Asian Art museum in New York, and the Asian sections at the Metropolitan just don’t excite me.

By contrast, the histories of the Boston area museums – the MFA, Gardner, and Peabody-Essex in particular – and of cultural life in Boston more widely, are intricately tied into connections to Japan and to East Asia more broadly. You might not think about that when you think of Boston – Colonial history, New England architecture, the Red Sox, Harvard – but the impact of the likes of Okakura Kakuzô, Ernest Fenollosa, Isabella Stewart Gardner, Edward Sylvester Morse, William S. Bigelow, and Charles Goddard Weld was invaluable in opening up the West (the US in particular) to East Asian art, and in fact in opening up East Asia to Western conceptions of “fine art” and to appreciation of their own rich artistic heritages.

The Museum of Fine Arts is an incredible place. It puts a smile on my face just to be there. Is this because I have a personal connection to the museum that I do not have with the Metropolitan or other museums? Absolutely. Through my internship at the MFA, I became intimately familiar with certain artists, certain pieces, with the history of the museum, and with the people who work there, making each and every exhibit much more personal for me, as I know the people behind its creation. I also learned more about Japanese art history through this internship than I ever did in class, and more about how museums are run than in any of my other experiences.

But that very personal connection aside, I still think I would find the MFA a far less impersonal place than, for example, the Metropolitan. It is in any case more brightly lit, the architecture evocative of airiness and openness. The Museum contains several courtyards and gardens, and a number of areas where natural sunlight is allowed to enter the building. The Asian galleries are designed to look like the inside of traditional Asian buildings, with thick wooden pillars, and wooden rafters, etc, creating an environment far more culturally appropriate, and more inspiring, inviting and relaxing than the dimly lit galleries of some other museums or the stark white, completely unadorned rooms of many contemporary art galleries.

Certainly, the MFA is a massive institution (and getting bigger; a major expansion is underway right now) covering art from all around the world, and possessing a great many treasures from a wide range of genres, periods, and media. I am sure that if one were to look into it, they probably have very interesting, deep, and special connections to certain aspects of Greco-Roman, Renaissance, and American Art. They have plenty of Sargent paintings, some great treasures in the European paintings section, and a strong connection to various expeditions at Giza.

But the MFA also possesses the largest collection of Japanese art of any single institution in the world; and more importantly perhaps, they have the space to display that collection. There is a dedicated area for prints, an inspirational, beautiful and meditative Buddhist temple room along with two other small rooms devoted to Japanese Buddhist art, and two more large galleries for rotating Japanese exhibitions. At any given time, the MFA is hosting two to five separate titled, themed, exhibitions (or rotations) of Japanese art, while I don’t believe I can think of a single titled, themed, cohesive exhibition of Japanese art that I have ever seen at the Metropolitan. While I do feel bad for the Chinese side of things at the MFA, which for the most part only has one small room for rotations & temporary exhibits, those rotations/exhibits are still titled, themed, cohesively organized, and housed in a well-lit, inviting space. By contrast, the Japanese galleries at the Met, including the Nakashima-furnished study room, are dark and depressing; it is difficult to see the works properly, and while they may rotate them fairly often, I do not believe I have ever seen an organized, titled, themed exhibit in that space.

This has perhaps turned into an invective against the Metropolitan, and that is not my intention. I fully understand the need to control lighting so as to conserve the artworks, and appreciate that the Met’s collections are perhaps stronger in Chinese art. The MFA’s collection of Japanese art is unparalleled; but, at the same time, I don’t feel that that necessarily means that their exhibitions must be.

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Even outside of just the Japanese galleries, the MFA seems to always be full of life and energy, while at the same time never being so crowded as to be annoying, like some other museums I could name. This weekend, a special program called Art in Bloom was going on; throughout the museum, flower arrangements inspired by individual artworks had been set up, and small guided tours organized around these flower arrangements were moving along through the galleries constantly. While most major museums do have all sorts of programs going on any given week of the year – concerts, lectures, films, courses, gallery tours, gallery talks – somehow I have a sense, a feeling, of the MFA being a particularly happening place as to these things; not necessarily in the number of programs offered, but in the enthusiasm brought to them by those running the events and those attending as well. The smiles, friendliness, and upbeat atmosphere of a beautiful spring day carries itself into the MFA as well, and can be felt throughout the building, not only outside; at other museums, this feeling ends at the door as you are led past security check stations into a crowded lobby made of cold stone and concrete, lit solely by artificial lights.

I am sure that there are many people out there who would dream of a position in the MFA’s Japanese art section, purely on account of their unparalleled collection. But I dream of that dream job for so many more reasons – the architecture, the space, the energy and light, airy, open feeling of the building; the long and deep history, and the wonderful people who I know who work there. Maybe one day, with a lot of hard work, and a ton of just pure luck, I will be able to secure a position there, to work in that amazing environment, with those incredible people, and that wonderful collection again. In the meantime, I shall have to settle for being a visitor.

Much thanks to Flickr users Joe Kester and Kati Szalay for the use of their photos. (Top photo is my own.)

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