Collecting Modern Japanese Prints. Norman Tolman

      Then

      Our collection began with a woodblock print by Saito Kiyoshi called Clay Image, 1950 (presently on loan to the University of Maryland at College Park and thus not illustrated here). It depicts four haniwa (ancient Japanese clay tomb figures), two of them in full face and two in profile, executed in black, white, gray, and terracotta. I saw the print at an exhibition in New York in the fall of 1967 and knew that I had to have it. How can one explain this kind of elemental appeal that a work of art can exert? The faces of the figures were obviously from a primitive culture much like those that had produced the African or pre-Columbian artifacts that had such an enriching influence on many Western artists, including Picasso. Like them, these Japanese figures command a universal fascination because of their simplicity and vitality.

      The print in New York was not for sale. "Maybe you could find a copy of it in Japan," said the clerk unfeelingly. Little did she know that a trip to Tokyo was on my schedule, a stopover for embassy consultation en route to my posting at the U.S. Consulate General in Hong Kong. Now after all these years of living in Japan I recall that day still. Imagine having only a thirty-six-hour stopover for official business and spending much of one's free time tramping the pavements looking for a print, with hardly a word of Japanese at one's command. I did not get the print at that time, but I got something even more valuable—Saito Kiyoshi himself—and we still have him as a dear friend after all these years.

      I eventually located the Murakami Gallery, which specialized in Saito's work. A lengthy description of the composition was duly given to Mr. Murakami, who racked his brain and with patience and kindness showed me all of the Saito woodblocks he had on hand. They numbered into the hundreds, and though I leafed back and forth for almost three hours, the sought-after print did not appear. Much time had elapsed, and the still polite Mr. Murakami explained that he did not exactly know the print I was looking for and, in fact, seemed to doubt its existence, even though he was Saito's son-in-law and knew the master's works very well.

      Since my heart was set on that print only, I thanked him for his time, bought nothing, and dejectedly turned to leave, actually bumping into an older gentleman in the doorway. "Wait!" shouted Mr. Murakami. "It's Saito-sensei." The thrill of meeting this famous man who had made such an impressive body of woodblock prints was a memorable experience. We have often wished in retrospect that we had been able to buy one of every work of his available that day.

      Yet again, the story of the elusive print was told, with Mr. Murakami translating into Japanese for Saito. I did not speak Japanese at that time, and even today when interpreting between our clients and artists I clearly remember the frustration of not being able to communicate. Saito immediately recalled the print from my description. He said that he thought he had a copy in his studio, and if so it was mine. Lunch was then brought in and a long friendship was launched.

      Several weeks later, Mary, on her way to join me in Hong Kong with two small children in tow, went through the "search and find" process—so much of the "charm" of getting around in Tokyo— located the gallery, got the print, paid the bill, and our collection was officially on its way.

      We have long enjoyed the pleasure of Saito's friendship. During our time in Hong Kong, reading in the newspaper that he was to stop there on his way back from a sketching trip to India, I immediately phoned my counterpart in the Japanese Consulate General, Kato Koichi, now a well-known Japanese politician and recent chief cabinet secretary, whose response at that time to "Where is Saito Kiyoshi?" was "Who is Saito Kiyoshi?" Never one to give up, I phoned various hotels where Japanese were likely to stay and found him on the third try.

      Mary and I quickly organized a large party and presented Saito to the Hong Kong art world. Later, after our transfer to Japan, he was the first artist we contacted, and his personal introduction to other artists, galleries, and personalities in the print world was instrumental in establishing us as serious art lovers and patrons. We have been guests in his home in Kamakura when he lived there, and have also visited him in Aizu Wakamatsu, his old hometown, current residence, and the subject of more than one hundred prints in the Winter in Aizu series. He has literally put the snowy scenes of this northern area on the artistic map. We are always invited to the openings of his many shows in Tokyo and make every effort to attend them all, including one on March 23, 1994, at the Odakyu Department Store Museum, taking place just as we are writing this. (We succumbed yet again and added another Saito to our collection.) During a recent opening of his works at the Odakyu Department Store in Shinjuku, Saito started to speak and suddenly stopped, telling the audience in his charming, unaffected manner, "I don't want to be saying the same old things over and over. Besides, there is someone here who knows more about Japanese prints than all of us." To our great surprise, he asked Norman to speak, the ultimate compliment from the master.

      And so we begin with "Then" and Saito Kiyoshi, at a time when each purchase was a major decision, whose memory brings to mind an entire gamut of emotions and experiences that seems real even today. In those days Saito was often the first Japanese print artist whose work any foreigner might be expected to encounter. His woodblocks were extremely popular with Americans in postwar Japan, and hundreds found loving homes throughout the U.S. He was already famous when we began to collect, so it was not necessary for us to put our aesthetic feelings on the line by admitting that we loved his work. Everybody loved it. Even Time had used his compositions on two covers, portraits of prime ministers Sato Eisaku and Fukuda Takeo. Many museums collected his prints and he had won international acclaim as the first woodblock artist from Japan to capture a prize in the renowned First Sao Paulo Biennial in 1951. In addition to the technical excellence of the work, we enjoyed the colors, the exotic (to us, as newcomers to Japan) subject matter of haniwa, temple courtyards, and thatched-roof villages in wintry Aizu. Each print left a singular impression. After the fortitude required first to find the gallery and then to allocate the money to buy the print, each succeeding acquisition became gradually easier as our fortunes and sense of direction improved.

      Saito's works are widely imitated, but to the aware art lover there is never any confusion as to the real thing. No one else uses those specific colors and no one else's work can convey that certain essentially Japanese predilection for texture, simplicity, and pattern epitomized in Saito's works.

      Plate 2

      Maiko, Kyoto (S) is an almost erotic composition showing the back view of a maiko (apprentice geisha) with the nape of her neck exposed, which is considered quite sensual in Japan. Saito has depicted her from an unusual angle, getting right to the heart (or neck) of the matter. Her kimono and patterned obi, in which the natural grain of the woodblock has been used to provide texture, are striking. With the understatement that characterizes Japanese prints, Saito has conjured up the entire geisha mystique simply by using four dabs of color—one of brilliant red and three of terracotta—to suggest the maiko's decorative hair ornaments. In the same terra-cotta hue, he depicts the neckline of the kimono from an unusual perspective, stirring the imagination and heightening the sensuality of the maiko. The beautiful face is not revealed, but is saved for one's imagination. Being able to own and repeatedly look at this print enabled us gradually to come to some understanding of the Japanese appreciation for what is unstated but implied.

      Plate 3

      In those days of collecting and searching for the "real Japan," Sekino Jun'ichiro seemed a likely artist to pursue. His vignettes of tranquil Kyoto courtyards, undulating tile roofs, and scenic villages presented glimpses of such irresistible charm that one suspected the artist of making them all up. The joy of discovering that the subject was a real place that could actually be visited was a delight almost as great as finding the print itself. Keio Hyakka-en (a place name) is such a print. Who could imagine that this idyllic vista of floral beauty, with its field of luxuriant irises, was not just in the artist's mind but was actually viewable if one got off the train at Keio Tamagawa Station in the suburbs of Tokyo. Now it is slightly annoying to find that recent compositions by other artists are often imaginary, but then it was different.

      I am reminded of an incident that occurred many years after our collection had developed to significant proportions. Although we owned several of Sekino's landscapes, we had neglected a very important