He felt as though here were dreaming.
TOSHUSAI Sharaku.
Of the more than two thousand or so ukiyo-e artists who ever lived, no name is as recognized today, save perhaps those of Utamaro, Hokusai, and one or two others. But it is not simply a question of being famous. Compared to other ukiyo-e artists, there was something unique about Sharaku. Considering the very short period of time during which he was active, he produced an astonishingly large number of works. Moreover, all of his prints were issued by a single publisher. Over a period of just ten months, he published more than one hundred and forty prints. Then he suddenly vanished. Exactly who he was is still unclear. In short, Sharaku is a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Even in Ukiyo-e Ruiko , widely considered the most reliable source for information on Japanese ukiyo-e artists, there is only a cursory entry under his name:
SharakuâLived late eighteenth century. Commonly known as Saito Jurobei. Resided in Hatchobori in Edo. Employed as a Noh actor by the lord of Awa province [modern Tokushima Prefecture]. Made portraits of kabuki actors, but these were too true to life for contemporary tastes and his career lasted less than a year.
This brief description has come down to us from the notebook of one Sasaya Hokyo, written sometime in the 1790s, and provides the best glimpse we have of Sharaku from his own time. It forms the basis for the view, widely held today, that Sharaku was not well regarded as an artist in his own day. His contemporaries, so it is claimed, were incapable of appreciating his modernist style. But if so, how did he manage to publish over 140 works in just ten months? Nobody knows.
Today, the notion that Sharaku was a Noh actor from Awa province on the island of Shikoku has been thoroughly discredited. Most scholars instead ascribe to the theory that Sharaku was the pseudonym of some other artist. How else, they say, can one begin to explain the riddle of Sharakuâs identity?
Apart from the appeal of his art, it is this riddle that continues to fascinate art historians.
October 25
ONE EVENING two days later, Ryohei set out for Ginza.
At seven oâclock Fujisawa Hiroshi, one of the core members of Nishijimaâs alumni group, was hosting a party at Sakamoto , a restaurant on Namiki Street, to celebrate the publication of his new book. It was just a small private affair, but the professor was certain to be there.
As Ryohei approached his destination his pulse began to race wildly. How ought he to explain the painting catalogue he had found to Nishijima? Would the professor be interested in what he had to say? These questions had been causing Ryohei a great deal of unease. He had hardly slept for two days. He had perhaps stumbled upon a discovery that would shake the field of ukiyo-e studiesâindeed, the entire art worldâto its very foundations. This realization left Ryohei in no state to sleep. Today, he had again gone to the university early in the morning and spent most of the day in the art history department and the library. If it were not for the fact that Professor Nishijima planned to be there that evening, Ryohei might even have skipped the party with hardly a second though. That was how engrossed he had become in his new project.
As Yosuke had pointed out, over the past ten years Professor Nishijima had moved away from the study of Sharaku. But he was still the leading scholar on the subject.
This was the scenario Ryohei envisioned: he would tell Nishijima his new theory about Sharaku and the professor would respond with his honest opinion. There was no room for power politics. This was what research was all about.
But when Ryohei reflected on how, over the years, Nishijima had attacked every scholar to come along with a new theory about Sharaku, he grew less sanguine.
He could understand the professorâs position. As the leading authority on Sharaku, endorsing a new theory was an implicit
TOSHUSAI Sharaku.
Of the more than two thousand or so ukiyo-e artists who ever lived, no name is as recognized today, save perhaps those of Utamaro, Hokusai, and one or two others. But it is not simply a question of being famous. Compared to other ukiyo-e artists, there was something unique about Sharaku. Considering the very short period of time during which he was active, he produced an astonishingly large number of works. Moreover, all of his prints were issued by a single publisher. Over a period of just ten months, he published more than one hundred and forty prints. Then he suddenly vanished. Exactly who he was is still unclear. In short, Sharaku is a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.
Even in Ukiyo-e Ruiko , widely considered the most reliable source for information on Japanese ukiyo-e artists, there is only a cursory entry under his name:
SharakuâLived late eighteenth century. Commonly known as Saito Jurobei. Resided in Hatchobori in Edo. Employed as a Noh actor by the lord of Awa province [modern Tokushima Prefecture]. Made portraits of kabuki actors, but these were too true to life for contemporary tastes and his career lasted less than a year.
This brief description has come down to us from the notebook of one Sasaya Hokyo, written sometime in the 1790s, and provides the best glimpse we have of Sharaku from his own time. It forms the basis for the view, widely held today, that Sharaku was not well regarded as an artist in his own day. His contemporaries, so it is claimed, were incapable of appreciating his modernist style. But if so, how did he manage to publish over 140 works in just ten months? Nobody knows.
Today, the notion that Sharaku was a Noh actor from Awa province on the island of Shikoku has been thoroughly discredited. Most scholars instead ascribe to the theory that Sharaku was the pseudonym of some other artist. How else, they say, can one begin to explain the riddle of Sharakuâs identity?
Apart from the appeal of his art, it is this riddle that continues to fascinate art historians.
October 25
ONE EVENING two days later, Ryohei set out for Ginza.
At seven oâclock Fujisawa Hiroshi, one of the core members of Nishijimaâs alumni group, was hosting a party at Sakamoto , a restaurant on Namiki Street, to celebrate the publication of his new book. It was just a small private affair, but the professor was certain to be there.
As Ryohei approached his destination his pulse began to race wildly. How ought he to explain the painting catalogue he had found to Nishijima? Would the professor be interested in what he had to say? These questions had been causing Ryohei a great deal of unease. He had hardly slept for two days. He had perhaps stumbled upon a discovery that would shake the field of ukiyo-e studiesâindeed, the entire art worldâto its very foundations. This realization left Ryohei in no state to sleep. Today, he had again gone to the university early in the morning and spent most of the day in the art history department and the library. If it were not for the fact that Professor Nishijima planned to be there that evening, Ryohei might even have skipped the party with hardly a second though. That was how engrossed he had become in his new project.
As Yosuke had pointed out, over the past ten years Professor Nishijima had moved away from the study of Sharaku. But he was still the leading scholar on the subject.
This was the scenario Ryohei envisioned: he would tell Nishijima his new theory about Sharaku and the professor would respond with his honest opinion. There was no room for power politics. This was what research was all about.
But when Ryohei reflected on how, over the years, Nishijima had attacked every scholar to come along with a new theory about Sharaku, he grew less sanguine.
He could understand the professorâs position. As the leading authority on Sharaku, endorsing a new theory was an implicit
Similar Books
