Whenever I am talking to people about my
printmaking work, I always emphasize the fact that I am not an
artist, but consider myself a 'craftsman', someone who enjoys the
making more than the creating. Of course, there is actually no sharp
line dividing the two ideas, and there are obviously artistic aspects
involved as well in what I do every day, but in my mind at least, the
image is clear - I do not create something original that has never
been seen before, but 'merely' use the skill of my hands. The
conversations invariably use the word 'shokunin', and our
dictionaries tell us that this translates into English as
'craftsman', but I wonder just how similar the two ideas really are
....
During the six or so years that I have been living
here in Japan, I have visited many shokunin, and have enjoyed long
discussions with them about their life and work. I have been
surprised by many things they have said, and have come to realize
that their thinking is sometimes quite different from my conceptions
of a craftsman's ideas. This was driven home to me quite forcefully
when I was talking a while ago with Mr. Isamu Adachi, proprietor of
the Adachi Hanga Institute, a well-known print publishing house here
in Tokyo, and a place we will be visiting in a future issue of this
newsletter.
Mr. Adachi is widely known as one of the world's
leading authorities on traditional Japanese printmaking, and the
prints produced by the craftsmen in his workshop are recognized as
being of the highest standards. When I showed him some of my prints
and asked for his comments, I did not expect (and did not receive)
high praise for my efforts. What he did say though, confused me quite
a bit. He used the expression 'teinei sugiru' - 'too careful', in
reference to my prints. When I took it as a compliment and replied
with 'Thank you, thank you,' he just shook his head in disgust at my
lack of understanding. Since that day I have given considerable
thought to his words, and to what he was trying to tell me.
Let me tell you about a Westerner's idea of a
'craftsman'. The following images immediately come to mind: an
experienced, skilled worker ... someone methodical, who slowly and
carefully crafts his products ... patient ... willing to take as much
time as necessary to produce quality work ... carefully, carefully! I
can imagine English readers of this newsletter nodding their heads in
general agreement. But when we stop our Japanese 'man on the street'
and ask him about his concept of a 'shokunin', what do we get? 'An
experienced, skilled worker ... someone with a deep knowledge of his
tools ... able to work with incredible speed ... to turn out quality
work ...' Now it is my Japanese readers who are nodding. If I as a
Westerner hear a story about say, a guitar maker in Spain who takes a
year to carefully build each instrument, I am lost in admiration. To
a Japanese shokunin, this is inconceivable, and to him it is a
horrible insult to be thought of as a slow worker.
As someone who was raised in Western thinking, and
who is now trying to work as a craftsman in Japan, the situation for
me is thus somewhat schizophrenic. But I am starting to understand.
What Mr. Adachi was saying to me was that my prints were 'dead',
lifeless. Yes, they were neat, clean ... 'nice'. But my knife had
moved too carefully, my baren too delicately. I had not worked with
my 'feelings', my heart, but with my 'intellect'. The difference is
perhaps easier to understand if one thinks of calligraphy, both
Western and Japanese. Picture this: a kimono-clad Japanese lady
kneeling before a blank sheet of paper, brush poised in her hand. She
starts the first character. Her hand moves slowly, carefully. She
watches closely to see that the brush follows the planned 'path'.
Across. Down. A little dot here. A little stroke there. Bit by bit,
slowly and steadily, until it is done. Ridiculous? Of course. How
does it really go...? The poised brush ... and then a quick slash, a
lunge, the brush sweeping across the paper as if it had a will of its
own. More strength here. Pull back there. The very antithesis of
careful planning! The result? Living calligraphy. Words dancing down
the page. And traditional Western calligraphy? Well, just by looking
at it (see picture), you can tell how it was made. It doesn't dance
anywhere. It marches!
The question is not really one of simply speed,
but rather one of 'intellectual involvement'. We Westerners obviously
like to work with our 'brain', analyzing, calculating, and
controlling every step of the process. The Japanese perhaps like to
bypass this organ, and allow the body and muscles (well-trained) to
do the work more 'naturally'. The same thing is apparent in the way
we learn things. I want to inspect, study and analyze the process. I
want to 'figure it out'. The Japanese seem to learn by osmosis, by
rubbing shoulders with a skilled practitioner. I am reminded of the
Japanese shakuhachi teacher who stopped accepting any more Western
students. "They ask too many questions," he cried!
None of this is to imply that the Japanese way is
good, and the Western way is bad. They are just different, very very
different. They exist in their separate worlds. Except for my case,
where they are trying to live in the same head, and the same hands!
I have learned most of what I know about
printmaking by working alone and trying to 'figure it out'. Of course
I have had occasional help from people in the field, but my approach
has been by and large 'analytical'. I am now beginning to realize
that I will probably not be able to improve much further this way. My
carving is now 'correct', the lines all in the right places, the
right thickness. My printing is just as 'correct', smooth colours,
neatly fitted within those lines. This is not enough. Perhaps my
collectors are happy with what they see, but Mr. Adachi sees more. Or
perhaps it is more correct to say he doesn't see ... and what he
doesn't see is 'life', motion. He doesn't see my carved lines dancing
across the page.
The solution is obvious. Time. Time spent with
experienced craftsmen shokunin. Listening to the sounds of their
work. Breathing the same air as they, and drinking the same 'sake'.
Simply sitting in the same room. And not asking questions! And if I
can do more of this, then perhaps one day sometime in the future, Mr.
Adachi will look over one of my prints, and then say to me, "Maaa,
not so bad ... not so bad ...." Will I live so long?
Concern
for the future is also reflected in David's studio activities. The
Kyoto printmaker who assisted him in the early days is now in his
80's. No one is waiting to fill his shoes, a familiar situation these
days in many traditional Japanese crafts, as the young generation
flocks to jobs offering somewhat more money and excitement. David
sees his role as a kind of bridge, a link between the disappearing
generation of old craftsmen and a yet-to-appear generation of young
people eager to learn traditional arts. If it is to be the foreign
printmaker's job to preserve the traditions, then so be it. Preserve
them he will. And as he is doing so, he will inject fresh blood of
his own, giving additional impetus to survive for yet another
generation or so.
