CHAPTER FIVE. CANONS OF THE AESTHETICS OF JAPANESE PAINTING

One of the most important principles in the art of Japanese painting—indeed, a fundamental and entirely distinctive characteristic—is that called living movement, SEI DO, or _kokoro mochi,_ it being, so to say, the transfusion into the work of the felt nature of the thing to be painted by the artist. Whatever the subject to be translated—whether river or tree, rock or mountain, bird or flower, fish or animal—the artist at the moment of painting it must feel its very nature, which, by the magic of his art, he transfers into his work to remain forever, affecting all who see it with the same sensations he experienced when executing it.

This is not an imaginary principle but a strictly enforced law of Japanese painting. The student is incessantly admonished to observe it. Should his subject be a tree, he is urged when painting it to feel the strength which shoots through the branches and sustains the limbs. Or if a flower, to try to feel the grace with which it expands or bows its blossoms. Indeed, nothing is more constantly urged upon his attention than this great underlying principle, that it is impossible to express in art what one does not first feel. The Romans taught their actors that they must first weep if they would move others to tears. The Greeks certainly understood the principle, else how did they successfully invest with imperishable life their creations in marble?

In Japan the highest compliment to an artist is to say he paints with his soul, his brush following the dictates of his spirit. Japanese painters frequently repeat the precept:

_Waga kokoro waga te wo yaku_ _Waga te waga kokoro ni ozuru._

Our spirit must make our hand its servitor; Our hand must respond to each behest of our spirit.

The Japanese artist is taught that even to the placing of a dot in the eyeball of a tiger he must first feel the savage, cruel, feline character of the beast, and only under such influence should he apply the brush. If he paint a storm, he must at the moment realize passing over him the very tornado which tears up trees from their roots and houses from their foundations. Should he depict the seacoast with its cliffs and moving waters, at the moment of putting the wave-bound rocks into the picture he must feel that they are being placed there to resist the fiercest movement of the ocean, while to the waves in turn he must give an irresistible power to carry all before them; thus, by this sentiment, called living movement (SEI DO), reality is imparted to the inanimate object. This is one of the marvelous secrets of Japanese painting, handed down from the great Chinese painters and based on psychological principles—matter responsive to mind. Chikudo, the celebrated tiger painter _(Plate VI)_, studied and pondered so long over the savage expression in the eye of the tiger in order to reproduce its fierceness that, it is related, he became at one time mentally unbalanced, but his paintings of tigers are inimitable. They exemplify SEI DO.

From what has been said it will be appreciated why, in a Japanese painting, so much value is attached to the strength with which the brush strokes are executed _(fude no chicara),_ to the varying lights and shades of the _sumi_ (BOKU SHOKU), to their play and sheen _(tsuya),_ and to the manifestation of the artist’s power according to the principle of living movement (SEI DO). In a European painting such considerations have no place.

An oil painting can be rubbed out and done over time and again until the artist is satisfied. A _sumi e_ or ink painting must be executed once and for all time and without hesitation, and no corrections are permissible or possible. Any brush stroke on paper or silk painted over a second time results in a smudge; the life has left it. All corrections show when the ink dries.

Japanese artists are not bound down to the literal presentation of things seen. They have a canon, called _esoragoto,_ which means literally an invented picture, or a picture into which certain invention fictions are painted.

Every painting to be effective must be _esoragoto;_ that is, there must enter therein certain artistic liberties. It should aim not so much to reproduce the exact thing as its sentiment, called _kokoro mochi,_ which is the moving spirit of the scene. It must not be a facsimile.

When we look at a painting which pleases us what is the cause or source of our satisfaction? Why does such painting give us oftentimes more satisfaction than the scene itself which it recalls? It is largely because of _esoragoto_ or the admixture of invention (the artistic unreality) with the unartistic reality; the poetic handling or treatment of what in the original may in some respects be commonplace.

A correctly executed Japanese painting in _sumi_ called _sumi e,_ is essentially a false picture so far as color goes, where anything in it not black is represented. Hence, _sumi_ paintings of landscapes, flowers and trees, are untrue as to color, and the art lies in making things thus represented seem the opposite of what they appear and cause the sentiment of color to be felt through a medium which contains no color. This is _esoragoto._

It is related that Okubo Shibutsu, famous for painting bamboo, was requested to execute a _kakemono_ representing a bamboo forest. Consenting, he painted with all his known skill a picture in which the entire bamboo grove was in red. The patron upon its receipt marveled at the extraordinary skill with which the painting had been executed, and, repairing to the artist’s residence, he said: “Master, I have come to thank you for the picture; but, excuse me, you have painted the bamboo red.” “Well,” cried the master, “in what color would you desire it?” “In black, of course,” replied the patron. “And who,” answered the artist, “ever saw a black-leaved bamboo?” This story well illustrates _esoragoto._ The Japanese are so accustomed to associate true color with what the _sumi_ stands for that not only is fiction in this respect permissible but actually missed when not employed. In a landscape painting effects are frequently introduced which are not to be found in the scene sketched. The false or fictitious is added to heighten the effect. This is _esoragoto—_ the privileged departure, the false made to seem true. In a landscape a tree is often found to occupy an unfortunate place or there is no tree where its presence would heighten the effect. Here the artist will either suppress or add it, according to the necessities of treatment. Not every landscape is improved by trees or plantations; nor, indeed, is every view containing trees a type scene for landscape treatment. Hence, certain liberties are conceded the artist provided only the effect is pleasing and satisfactory and that no probabilities seem violated. This is _esoragoto._ Horace understood this and lays it down as a fundamental principle in art: “_Quid libet audendi_”. The artist will oftentimes see from a point of view impossible in nature, but if the result is pleasing the liberty is accorded. Sesshu, one of the greatest landscape painters of Japan, on returning to his own country after having studied some years in China, made a painting of his native village with its temple and temple groves, winding river and pagoda or five-roofed tower. His attention being subsequently called to the fact that in this village there was no tower or pagoda, he exclaimed that there ought to be one to make the landscape perfect, and thereupon he had the tower constructed at his own expense. He had painted in the pagoda unconsciously. This was _esoragoto._

There are no people in the world who have a higher idea of the dignity of art than the Japanese and it is a principle with them that every painting worthy of the name should reflect that dignity, should testify to its own worth and thus justly impress with sentiments of admiration those to whom it may be shown. This intrinsic loftiness, elevation or worth is known in their art by the term KI IN. Without this quality the painting, artistically considered and critically judged, must be pronounced a failure. Such picture may be perfect; in proportion and design, correct in brush force and faultless in color scheme; it may have complied with the principles of IN YO, and TEN, CHI, JIN or heaven, earth and man; it may have scrupulously observed all the rules of lines, dots and ledges and yet if KI IN be wanting the painting has failed as a work of true art. What is this subtle something called KI IN?

In our varied experiences of life we all have met with noble men and women whose beautiful and elevating characters have impressed us the moment we have been brought into relation with them. The same quality which thus affects us in persons is what the Japanese understand by KI IN in a painting. It is that indefinable something which in every great work suggests elevation of sentiment, nobility of soul. From the earliest times the great art writers of China and Japan have declared that this quality, this manifestation of the spirit, can neither be imparted nor acquired. It must be innate. It is, so to say, a divine seed implanted in the soul by the Creator, there to unfold, expand and blossom, testifying its hidden residence with greater or lesser charm according to the life spent, great principles adhered to and ideals realized. Such is what the Japanese understand by KI IN. It is, I think, akin to what the Romans meant by _divinus afflatus—_that divine and vital breath, that emanation of the soul, which vivifies and ennobles the work and renders it immortal. And it is a striking commentary upon artist life in Japan that many of the great artists of the Tosa and Kano schools, in the middle years of their active lives, retired from the world, shaved their heads, and, taking the titular rank of HOGEN, HOIN or HOKYO, became Buddhist priests and entered monasteries, there to pass their remaining days, dividing their time between meditation and inspired work that they might leave in dying not only spotless names but imperishable monuments raised to the honor and glory of Japanese art.

[Chapter 6 Head-Band: The chrysanthemum pattern.]