Mr. Keizaburo Matsuzaki, printer
Up to now, this column on visiting craftsmen has
dealt with people who are actually working with me on my printmaking
project: Shimano-san the block supplier, Usui-san the knife maker,
and Gosho-san the baren maker. Today's 'guest' is a little bit
different. He contributes nothing to the work. Nothing physical, that
is. Yet, the part he has played is so important that without it,
there would be no 'Hyaku-nin Isshu Hanga Series'. Let's drop in on
him .....
The sound is what first catches your attention as
you are climbing the narrow stairs to the workroom. A vigorous
swirling, brushing sound (is somebody cleaning his shoes?) .... a
slight rustle of paper .... a pause, and then another vigorous sound,
this time a scratchy kind of rubbing .... another pause, another
rustle of paper. What are these people doing? Of course, they are
making woodblock prints - rubbing brushes over woodblocks, and barens
over sheets of paper, the sequence repeated anew every few seconds as
they work their way down the stacks of paper. Master printer Mr.
Keizaburo Matsuzaki and his son Hiroshige are at work in their home
in Tokyo's shitamachi district.
On this particular visit, one of many I have made
to this room, the windows are closed to keep out the winter cold,
muting the traffic noise and leaving the soft sounds of the
printmaking work clearly audible. They are as familiar to
Matsuzaki-san as his own heartbeat and breathing, for he has been
hearing them now for 39 years, ever since taking his place at an
apprentice's bench at 15.
Every time I watch him work, I am struck by the
grace and ease with which he handles his tools. The baren seems to be
an outgrowth of his massive hand, and when he reaches for the brush
his eyes do not even bother to follow the movement, for after
10,000,000 repetitions he has no need to 'look' at what he is doing.
He sits crosslegged at the low printing bench, and as his baren
presses the paper onto the wood, the strength flows visibly in a
circular path up his body, through his shoulders, down his arms, and
out into the work. This energy remains visible in the print itself
when it is peeled off the wood - with colours rich and deep - a
permanent expression of the vitality that created it. Watching him at
work, I think I begin to understand what ballet is all about
....
Right from the very beginning of my relationship
with Matsuzaki-san, he has been as open, warm and friendly as anyone
could possibly be. With some craftsmen that I have visited, a wall of
'reserve' has stood between us, blocking real communication, but in
this room I have been made to feel like a partner rather than a
guest. Each time I show him my latest printing efforts, he is willing
to move beyond ritual politeness and offer me constructive help on
improving my work. On one occasion he had me sit at his bench and
show him with his tools what I was trying to do. Never had I ever
felt so inept. My awkward movements, feeble attempts to make smooth
colour, wasted energy - I tried to accomplish with brute force what
he achieved with a wave of the hand. He laughed, demonstrated yet
again, and offered more words of encouragement. How I envy Hiroshige
- his chance to sit and work in this room, to drink in the movements,
the rhythm of the work, the sounds ....
In the heyday of Ukiyo-e printmaking, men like
Matsuzaki-san were common. Hundreds of printers lived in these
streets, turning out stack after stack of the beautiful prints that
now grace museums around the world. The highly critical eyes of the
public, the demands of the publishers, and the ever increasing
technical challenges put forward by the designers, all combined to
push these men to ever higher standards of achievement. They were,
and remain now, fiercely proud of their abilities. All their skills
and resources were called for with each job.
Such challenges are rare now. When I reach the
top of the stairs and poke my head around the corner, I know what I
will see on his printing bench - a stack of 3,000 tiny sheets of
paper to be printed with snow falling on a temple roof - Christmas
cards for next year. He makes no complaint about the work, simple
though it may seem, and gives it the same attention that he would
give a famous masterwork. He is a printer, and his job is to print. I
am the one who feels frustrated to see this. I want to run into the
streets and tell everybody what is happening here; that men such as
Matsuzaki-san are sitting in their rooms - waiting. Waiting for
society to realize what a treasure they have here; waiting for the
artists and publishers to knock at the door with new, challenging
designs to be printed; and waiting for the young generation to come,
to watch, and to listen ....
And this of course is how I offer my thanks to
Matsuzaki-san for the time and energy he expends on my behalf. I get
better. Bit by bit, slowly but surely, I get better. How much of his
skill I will eventually absorb remains to be seen, but when my work
is going badly and the frustration builds, I stop for a moment and
try to picture him sitting there at his scarred and battered old
workbench. I try and visualize the energy flowing down through his
arms and out into the paper. I try .... I try ....
Matsuzaki-san, to your willingness to help me, I
owe everything. The words 'thank you very much' do not even come
close.