Pathway to Japanese Literature

This summer, I was truly in a refreshing state of mind.
The reason I say this is that in June of this year, I completed the set of three imperially commissioned paintings commanded by Her Majesty the Empress Dowager, and was happily able to present them to Her Majesty during her visit to Kyoto.
The newspapers wrote that I had fulfilled an imperial commission dating back twenty-one years, but when I reflect—it was during the Tenth Bunten Exhibition in the autumn of Taisho 5 (1916) that I first received this imperial command—indeed, twenty-one years had now passed.

At that time, I was forty-two years old.
For the Tenth Bunten Exhibition, I submitted "Evening of the Lunar Eclipse."
At that time, Her Majesty the Empress Dowager, who was then Her Majesty the Empress, would graciously attend the Bunten Exhibition each year, and was observed to hold an exceptionally profound interest in paintings.
That year—whether my "Evening of the Lunar Eclipse" had caught Her Majesty's eye—I suddenly received a telegram at my Kyoto residence commanding, "You shall perform an Imperial Court Painting Performance."
I promptly went up to the capital and had the honor of performing an Imperial Court Painting Performance at the Bunten Exhibition venue within the Prefectural Art Museum.
What I painted were court dancer-performers from the Kamakura period.

I subsequently had the honor of performing Imperial Court Painting Performances on two more occasions.
In Taisho 6 (1917), on the occasion of an imperial visit to Kyoto, I painted a girl from the Kyōhō era listening to the first song of a bush warbler among arranged plum trees at Kyoto City Public Hall.
I titled it "First Song".
Next, at the Taisho 7 (1918) Bunten Exhibition venue, I depicted Fujiwara-period maple-viewing customs and presented the work for imperial viewing.
Imperial Court Painting Performances, as each must be painted swiftly before the imperial presence, are executed improvisationally with colors applied in light washes and presented immediately in that state.

At the time of my first Imperial Court Painting Performance, through Count Mimurodo—then serving as Chief Chamberlain to Her Majesty the Empress—I had the honor of receiving an imperial command to newly present either two or three pairs of hanging scrolls to the imperial household.
I promptly devised the composition and drew small sketches for the set of three "Snow, Moon, Flowers" scrolls on Mino paper. When these were humbly presented through the Count, I was graciously granted the words: "This will suffice; make the dimensions thus and so."
Since that time, every year when spring comes around, I resolve in my heart that this year I shall devote myself wholeheartedly to the imperial commission.
Then, from this side and that came reminders regarding requests I had long been entrusted with.
When told things like, "We've been requesting since my father's time, and now my grandson is about to take a bride—please complete at least one piece by then," I found myself utterly unable to refuse, and so would begin painting just that one work.

My paintings were, by their very nature, detailed works; no matter how small, none could be dashed off in a single breath.
Conceiving the composition, drawing preliminary sketches, and only then taking up the brush—it did take time.
Moreover, being of a disposition that could not accept creating any painting—regardless of its purpose—without exerting my current full capabilities, I found it utterly impossible to carelessly finish rushed commissions.
In this way, when I inserted another commission in between, my mind became divided and things never proceeded smoothly.
If they could have been approached casually, one might have briskly moved to the next task—but precisely because this imperial commission had to become a permanent imperial treasure, an honorably preserved official work into which I yearned to pour my entire being, matters never progressed so simply.
In autumn I absolutely had to submit works to exhibitions; then my health would decline somewhat—and thus matters kept being postponed until, before I knew it, many long years had accumulated. The weight became too daunting, and I remained constantly tormented by anxiety.

These past two or three years, having regained robust health, I resolved that this year I must by any means necessary present the works to the imperial household.
And I determined that to atone for these years of delay, I must offer no less than an extraordinary masterpiece to Her Majesty—anything less would prove inexcusable.
Coincidentally, there came word from Count Mimurodo that Her Majesty the Empress Dowager would be making a gracious visit to Kyoto this June after a long absence, and that the works should be completed in time for this occasion.

From early February onward, I declined all commissions, set aside all distractions, and devoted myself entirely to creating preliminary sketches for the imperial paintings.
To verify Fujiwara-period costumes, I sometimes ventured out to make sketches.
By April, preliminary sketches that satisfied me were complete, and so at last I commenced work on the first scroll—"Snow"—using silk measuring two shaku in width and five shaku six sun in height.

Every morning, I woke at five o'clock, purified my body, and threw open all the doors of my second-floor studio.
The studio filled with the pure morning air.
There I would snugly shut them and devote myself to work throughout the day.
In the early morning, when insects rested asleep beneath the leaves and dust and grime lay settled, the studio maintained a truly pure atmosphere throughout the day.

Moreover, because I always keep the lids tightly closed when not using the paints, not a single speck of dust enters them.
I may be careless in all other matters, but when it comes to painting, I truly spare no effort with meticulous care.
I believe that if the paints are soiled or the surroundings are left in disarray, I can never create a pure painting.

Thus continuing my devoted efforts, when the "Snow" painting was completed, Count Mimurodo graciously came to Kyoto and said, "This is truly a masterwork. By all means, strive further to complete it in time for June's imperial visit so it may be presented at the Imperial Palace."

Finally, on June 20th, I completed the three-scroll set of "Snow, Moon, Flowers." It was a depiction of Fujiwara-period palace customs across these three "Snow, Moon, Flowers" scrolls. As for "Snow," one might consider it something that could have emulated Sei Shōnagon.

On the 24th, accompanied by Count Mimurodo, I humbly presented myself at the Imperial Palace where Her Majesty the Empress Dowager was residing to offer formal greetings upon submitting the commissioned works. The following day, the 25th—His Majesty’s auspicious birthday—it was discreetly conveyed to me that when Count Mimurodo had his audience, His Majesty graciously viewed the paintings and appeared all the more satisfied.

Though I had continued to think even in my dreams, "This year I must fulfill it without fail," the twenty-one years that had passed since first receiving the imperial command constituted a delay I found profoundly improper. Yet through this unforeseen span, I was able to imbue these paintings with twenty years of research. Thus, though my efforts remain inadequate, I feel I have been permitted to paint without regret—creating works destined to endure in the palace for ages to come.

Early Life

Why did I come to pursue a lifelong path wielding a paintbrush? Simply put, from earliest childhood I loved painting beyond measure.
This bloodline must have been passed down from my mother’s side.
Mother was also a person with an artistic sensibility.
The maternal grandfather also loved painting.
Among those siblings, there was one who took the art name Ryūshi and excelled in haikai poetry.
Father died in the year I was born.

The family business—the tea shop inherited from Father—was operated by Mother.

Grandfather was the nephew of Ōshio Kōso, who served as Osaka Town Magistrate, and had long held the position of manager at Nagano Store—a purveyor of fine silk fabrics for imperial attire in Kyoto’s Takakura district.
Grandfather was said to be a man of both sincerity and diligence—one who, when the main family’s lineage faced extinction at one time, sought out a distant relative, protected and supported this individual, and devoted himself to restoring the household.
Due to my family's business circumstances, I was born and raised in Shijō Gokōmachi, Kyoto’s most bustling district.
Along with an elder sister, I was raised solely by my mother’s hands.

The Picture-Explaining Letter

It seems I loved painting even before my mouth could form words properly—there was such an amusing story about this.
I was about four years old at the time.
On account of a festival or some such occasion, I had been invited alone to a relative’s house.

In those days, we called shops displaying woodblock prints and brocade pictures “picture shops.”
Whenever I passed by a picture shop, my eyes would catch on them, and I’d become unbearably desperate to have those images.
Yet young as I was, I felt too ashamed to ask my relatives to buy one for me. Just as I was mustering my resolve to endure this longing, our family’s apprentice happened to arrive.
There I drew a circle on paper, then a square at its center, with wave patterns filling the space between them.
I lined up six of these drawings and asked the apprentice to bring from home exactly what these pictures represented.
The Bunkyū coins of that era bore wave motifs—this drawing meant six such coins could purchase that print.
Though my tongue still stumbled over words, my brush flowed freely—the adults grasped this meaning and laughed heartily at the time.

Behind the shop counter, I would do nothing but draw.

I entered elementary school at seven years old.
It was called Kaichi Elementary School.
Even during free periods, I was often in the classroom drawing pictures on slate boards.
I remember friends requesting, "Please draw on my slate too."

When returning from school, I received hanshi paper from Mother, sat at the shop counter, and was always drawing.
I meticulously copied the beautiful Edo-period woodblock paintings Mother bought for me.
Being a bustling shop on Shijō Street, customers coming to buy tea never ceased.

"It seems 'That girl over there must truly love painting—she’s always drawing pictures' had become the talk of the town."

Among the customers who came to buy tea were all manner of people.
An old man with magistrate-like white hair, aware of my fondness for painting, would often show me brilliantly colored cherry blossom artworks.
This elderly man was Sakurato Tamao, a researcher of cherry blossoms.
There were also occasions when I received paintings of bamboo and orchids from art students who had come to Kyoto to study literati painting.

Thus did my love of painting, disregarding relatives’ and acquaintances’ criticisms—“Girls should learn needlework or tea ceremony; what use is teaching painting to a girl?”—reach the point where, through my resolute mother’s support of “wanting to nurture what she herself loves,” I became one of no more than two or three female art students of that time.

Entering the Prefectural Painting School

I was around thirteen or fourteen years old at the time. The Kyoto Prefectural Painting School had been established where the Kyoto Hotel now stands, so I promptly enrolled there. Initially, I studied flowers and birds. I would copy models onto karakami paper and practice brushwork techniques. Sometimes I sketched from life or made copies of old paintings. From childhood—perhaps because Mother had given me Edo-period beauty paintings—I had loved figure painting. Yet at the art school, figure painting was considered the most difficult discipline and reserved for final instruction. Master Suzuki Shōnen, perceiving my heartfelt yearning,

“If you care for figure painting that much, please stop by my place after school. I shall specially instruct you in figure painting.”

Because he had said this, I joyfully attended Matsunen Juku.

After some time, as Master Suzuki Shōnen had left the school, I too withdrew from the institution and came to study at Matsunen Juku. The art name Shōen was bestowed upon me by Master Suzuki Shōnen during that period. After that, I studied under Master Kōno Bairei, and following his passing, took Master Takeuchi Seihō as my teacher.

A Mountain of Sketchbooks

In the Tokyo area where Edo-period paintings and brocade pictures existed, there were good models for figure painting; but in Kyoto with its many flower-and-bird painters, opportunities to view beauty paintings were nearly nonexistent. Therefore, by sketching my own reflection in mirrors and drawing various people, I largely taught myself. I always carried a writing kit and hanshi paper in my sleeves as I walked. The Gion Festival held special anticipation for me in a different sense than for others. The reason was that in the large stores around Nakagyō, every establishment would display magnificent folding screens—treasured as family heirlooms—throughout the Gion Festival period. In grand old shops that had continued through generations, they kept truly splendid folding screens. When one said "Might I view the screens?", there was a custom that any shop would gladly bring them upstairs to show visitors, with greater pride taken when more customers came. I too, whenever walking down streets and spotting fine painted screens, would say "Might I view the screens?" and enter without hesitation.

“We have more upstairs—please do come up and see,” they would graciously show me, so taking this fortunate opportunity, I would humbly view them, and upon thinking “I must copy this,”

“Might I trouble you for a moment to make a copy?” I would ask, and there were times when I would settle down in some unfamiliar household for half a day, copying.

At that time, exhibitions were not held as frequently as they are today, making opportunities to see good paintings rather scarce.
When I heard from others about fine paintings in certain places, I would go to see them without hesitation—not deeming even a thousand ri too far.
Moreover, since distinguished families’ auctions often contained excellent works, I never failed to attend them.
I would go to the museum for the day with a boxed lunch.
And without fail, I would copy what I saw into my sketchbook.
As temples housed fine paintings, I would often travel not just around Kyoto but as far as Nara.
Thus did I meticulously copy old Sino-Japanese paintings.

When I went to museums and such places, there would be beautiful kana calligraphy by Tsurayuki among other works, and whenever I encountered difficult characters skillfully rendered in cursive styles, I would sometimes copy them down beside the paintings.
This seemed to become my natural form of study.
When I went to a daimyo’s auction and found a splendid kana calligraphy scroll by Tsurayuki, I began copying with the intention of transcribing just a line or two but ended up reproducing the entire scroll.
There were times when people nearby teased me with remarks like “You’re actually better at this.”
From my youth these sketch compendiums I accumulated by drawing from time to time have now formed a small mountain at hand.
The old paintings I painstakingly sought out and laboriously copied—even those from twenty or thirty years ago—still rise clearly before my eyes now.
However as the world later became more convenient things I saw through photo reproductions—though clearly remembered at the time—would slip completely from my mind before long.
Every time I leaf through this sketch compendium those days’ myriad memories come back to me fondly and it has become my most precious thing.

In later years, a fire broke out near my house. For a time my house was downwind, and I was told to evacuate my belongings as it had become dangerous. This house is one I built myself, but well—if it burns down, that can’t be helped. Now then—in the moment I thought to take something important—what came to mind was that sketch compendium. Ah yes! Quickly grabbing a large wrapping cloth, I went up to the second floor and thoroughly bundled up the sketch compendiums. Before long, the wind direction changed, and since there was no longer any need for worry, I went up to the third floor, climbed onto the roof where the men were, and observed with great care the firefighters at work—such a sight being rarely seen—now that I had such composure.

My first award came when I was fifteen.

The first time my painting was selected for an exhibition was in Meiji 23, when I was fifteen years old.
At the Third National Industrial Exhibition held in Tokyo, my submission of *Four Seasons Beauties* received the First-Class Honor Award.
I depicted four beauties representing the seasons on a canvas measuring two shaku five sun by five shaku (approximately 75.75 cm × 151.5 cm).
This work caught the attention of His Royal Highness Prince Connaught of England during his visit to our country, who honored me by purchasing it.
At that time, an article from Kyoto's Hinode Newspaper had been reprinted in recent papers, which I found amusing and clipped out.
They made much of how a fifteen-year-old girl's painting had won first-class honors and been purchased by a British prince.
I cannot seem to find it now and am unable to show it to you.

Thus was the curtain raised on my life with the paintbrush, though I did not yet consider making painting my lifelong vocation.
Yet my artistic path had unfolded in this manner.

Meiji 24 (1891): Tokyo Art Association "Japanese Beauty" First-Class Honor Award

Same year: National Painting Exhibition "Beauty Viewing the Moon" First-Class Honor Award

Meiji 25 (1892): Kyoto Spring Painting Exhibition "Beauty Enjoying the Cool" First-Class Honor Award

Same year: Chicago Exposition in USA (Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce Commissioned Work) "Four Seasons Beauties" Second Prize

Meiji 26 (1893): Tokyo Art Association "Beauty Ensemble" Third-Class Bronze Medal

Meiji 27 (1894): Tokyo Art Association "Beauty Rolling Up the Blind" Second-Class Honor Award

It was truly after this, when I was twenty or twenty-one years old, that I resolved to make painting my lifelong vocation.
From then on, whether flowers bloomed or the moon rose, I thought of nothing but painting.

Mother managed the shop alone, and late into the night, while doing sewing and other tasks, she encouraged my painting career.

Fierce Dedication

From then on, I resolved my mind like a man’s, but sadly, my form remained that of a woman.
Because of this, there were various difficulties even in my studies.
Though my body was small, I had been born with a robust constitution inherited from my mother, and thus could endure any intensity of study.
Yet even when I wished to go sketching, as a young woman I could not simply venture alone to such places.
There being no other way, I joined sketching trips with twelve or thirteen male students.
In the mornings, I would rise while it was still dark, fasten a boxed lunch at my waist, put on leggings, and set out.
Day after day, I walked eight or nine ri keeping up with the men’s pace.
I would walk and sketch, sketch and walk.
On one occasion, I went on a three-day trip to the Yoshino Mountains as far as Tō no Mine, sketching and walking all the while.
When I returned home, my legs would swell up so much they became as thick as daikon radishes, and there were times when I couldn’t stand without letting out a rallying cry.

Thanks to this, my legs remain remarkably sturdy even now.
Four or five years ago, I went to Hōho Hot Spring in Shinshu, but I walked up that steep mountain path without difficulty.

My Creative Chronology

Subsequently, if I were to arrange my creative works in chronological order, they would be as follows.
These consist solely of works exhibited at shows; beyond these, I have painted a considerable number of commissioned pieces as well.

Meiji 28 (1895): "Sei Shōnagon"
Fourth National Industrial Exhibition Submission (Second-Class Honor Award) "Yoshisada Observing Kōtō Naishi"
Youth Painting Exhibition Submission (Third Prize Bronze Medal)

Meiji 29 (1896): Japan Art Association Exhibition "Warm Breeze Lullaby" (First-Class Honor Award); Japan Art Association Exhibition "Mother's Love" (First-Class Honor Award)

Meiji 30 (1897): “Yorimasa Tamau Ayame no Mae”
Japan Painting Association Exhibition "Beauty Reading a Book" (Second-Class Honor Award)
National Women's Craftworks Exhibition Submission (First-Class Honor Award) “Ikka Rakukyo”
National Painting Exhibition Submission (Third-Class Bronze Medal) “Shuyō Kōshu Baika Shō”
Japan Art Association Exhibition (Third-Class Bronze Medal)

Meiji 31 (1898): “Shigehira Rōei”
Shinko Art Exhibition (Third-Class Bronze Medal) "Ancient Court Lady"
Japan Art Association Exhibition (Third-Class Bronze Medal)

Meiji 32 (1899): "Spring of Life"
Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Third Prize) "Bijin-zu"; National Painting Exhibition Submission (Bronze Medal) "Mōbo Danki"

Meiji 33 (1900): Japan Painting Association Exhibition "Hanazakari" (Second-Class Silver Medal, Third Place); Paris World Exposition Submission (Bronze Medal) "Fujyo Sekibetsu"
Shinko Art Exhibition 10th Anniversary Retrospective Exhibition Submission (Second-Class Silver Medal)

Meiji 34 (1901): "Early Spring in the Garden"
Same year: Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (First-Class Honor Award) "Blizzard"
First Gifu Prefectural Painting Exhibition Submission (Bronze Medal) "Half-Bloom"; Painting Research Convention Exhibition Submission (Bronze Medal)

Meiji 35 (1902): Japan Art Institute Exhibition "Shigure" Submission (Third Prize)

Meiji 36 (1903): "Three Sisters"
Meiji 36 (1903): Fifth National Industrial Exhibition Submission (Second Prize) "Spring Adornment"
Meiji 36 (1903): Hokuriku Painting Exhibition Submission (Bronze Medal)

Meiji 37 (1904): *Yujo Kameyu*
Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Fourth Prize) “Spring Adornment”
St. Louis World’s Fair Submission (Silver Award)

Meiji 38 (1905): “Flourishing Flowers”
Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Third-Class Bronze Medal)

Meiji 39 (1906): *Willow and Cherry Blossoms* Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Third-Class Bronze Medal); *Saisho Atsuko's Filial Piety*

Meiji 40 (1907): *Flourishing Flowers*
Hokuriku Painting Exhibition Submission (First Prize) “Sound of Insects”; Japan Art Association Exhibition Submission (Third Prize) “Long Night”
Bunten First Exhibition Submission (Third Prize)

Meiji 41 (1908): “Moonlight” Bunten Second Exhibition Submission (Third Prize); “Cherry Blossom Viewing”
Hokuriku Painting Exhibition Submission (First Prize Gold Medal) “Autumn Night”
Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Third-Class Bronze Medal)

Meiji 42 (1909): “Flower Viewing” London Japan-Britain Exhibition Submission; “Bustle of Flowers”
Rome World Exposition Submission (Grand Gold Prize) “Sound of Insects”; Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Third-Class Bronze Medal)

Meiji 43 (1910): *Doll Handler*
Shinko Art Exhibition Submission (Second-Class Silver Medal) *Flowers*; Tatsumi Painting Society Exhibition Submission (Second-Class Silver Medal) *Autumn Viewing at the Imperial Garden*; Bunten Fourth Exhibition Submission (Third Prize)

Taishō 2 (1913): *Adornment*; *Firefly*
Bunten Seventh Exhibition Submission (Third Prize)

Taishō 3 (1914): *Daughter Deep Snow*
Taishō Exhibition Submission (Second Class, First Place) *Preparing for the Dance*
Bunten Eighth Exhibition Submission (Second Prize)

Taishō 4 (1915): *Hanagatami* Bunten Ninth Exhibition Submission (Second Prize)

Taishō 5 (1916): *Evening of the Lunar Eclipse* Bunten Tenth Exhibition Submission (Recommended)

Taishō 7 (1918): *Flame* Bunten Twelfth Exhibition Submission; *Celestial Being*

Taishō 11 (1922): *Yang Guifei* Imperial Exhibition Fourth Exhibition Submission

Taishō 15 (1926): *Daughter* Prince Shōtoku Commemoration Exhibition Submission; *Waiting for the Moon* Imperial Exhibition Seventh Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 3 (1928): *Grass Paper Washing*
Imperial Ceremony Commemorative Commission

Shōwa 4 (1929): *Ise no Tayū*; *New Fireflies*
Italy-Japan Painting Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 5 (1930): *Spring and Autumn Two-Panel Folding Screen Pair*
Takamatsu-no-miya Imperial Family Commission

Shōwa 6 (1931): *Insect Catching* German Berlin Japanese Painting Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 7 (1932): *Looking at the Rainbow*

Shōwa 8 (1933): *Spring and Autumn Diptych*
Takamatsu-no-miya Imperial Family Commissioned Work

Shōwa 9 (1934): *Seibi* Kyoto City Exhibition Submission; *Boshi* Imperial Exhibition Fifteenth Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 10 (1935): *Tenpō Kagi (Tenpō Courtesan)* Spring Rainbow Exhibition Submission; *Oshidori Mage (Mandarin Duck Chignon)*
Tokyo Mitsukoshi Exhibition Submission “Spring Adornment”
Osaka Art Club Memorial Exhibition Submission “Doyōboshi”; Tokyo Mitsukoshi Exhibition Submission “Evening”; Goyo-kai First Exhibition Submission “Spring Garden”
Tokyo Takashimaya Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 11 (1936): “Spring Night” Spring Rainbow Exhibition Submission; “Shigure” Goyo-kai Exhibition Submission; “Prelude Dance”
Ministry of Education Art Exhibition Submission “Autumn Adornment”
Kyoto Mounting Exhibition Submission

Shōwa 12 (1937): “Spring Snow” Spring Rainbow Exhibition Submission; “Evening”
Gakushuin Commissioned Work

“Flourishing Flowers”

As I looked upon this production chart, memories of each individual painting came welling up within me.

The work *Flourishing Flowers* that I submitted to the Japanese Painting Association in Meiji 33 (1900) was a depiction of a bride and her mother. Around that time, the daughter of the main house of my family was to be married. As this was in days long past, there were no such things as beauty parlors; one would have their hair arranged by a hairdresser, but their makeup was done by their own family members.

"Why don't we have Tsū-san do it?"

My name is Tsune, and I was called Tsū-san, Tsū-san. There I performed the bride’s makeup in what we called the "three-legged" style, leaving three strands at the nape unpainted to make it appear slender. It was during that time, through sketching the bride’s high chignon and her mother’s hair that I observed up close, that *Flourishing Flowers* came into being.

*Hanagatami*

*Hanagatami* drew material from the Noh play *Hanagatami* and was submitted to the Bunten Exhibition in Taisho 4 (1915). Since I needed to depict a madwoman, I resolved to properly observe actual patients, making several visits to Iwakura Psychiatric Hospital. When guided through the wards by the director, I witnessed countless manifestations of madness. That summer found me wearing a thin crepe-silk obi—perhaps its sheen caught attention—when a lone madwoman came rushing toward me—

“What a beautiful obi you’re wearing.”

And she began touching it with her hand.
In one room there was an elegant woman who had once been the proprietress of a fine establishment.
She appeared fond of dancing—having heard she was always performing some sort of dance—and when I chanted Noh verses, she truly began to dance.
After observing men and women displaying various forms of madness, I thought this resembled a kind of paradise.
When listening to their greetings and responses, there were those who seemed no different from ordinary people—one might wonder if they were truly mad—but looking into their eyes, I could immediately tell.

*Mother and Child*

I wonder if it was during the Gion Festival—it was a very, very long time ago. In Nakagyō, at a large shop, there hung beautiful split-bamboo blinds. On those blinds, the bird-and-flower paintings were truly exquisite and so beautifully colored that they remained vividly etched in my mind.

One year, I conceived the idea of arranging those blinds and attempting to paint some figures. After having various figures stand before those remembered blinds and observing them, the form that resonated most deeply was that of a mother and child. This became *Mother and Child* submitted to the Imperial Exhibition in Shōwa 9 (1934).

*Prelude Dance*

Last year (Shōwa 11), *Prelude Dance* which I submitted to the Bunten Exhibition was completed with the intention of depicting a graceful young lady’s dancing form. I wished to express Noh dance's classical grace and dignified composure. I sent the bride to Kyoto's most refined Shimada hairstylist to have her hair arranged in the Bunshin Takashimada style. Then I had her wear a wedding furisode, assume various Noh poses, and sketched them. Midway through, when I considered portraying her as a middle-aged lady of standing, I promptly had the bride's hair done in marumage style, dressed her in a subdued kimono, and sketched that appearance too. As my Noh teacher's daughter often performed Noh dances, I had her demonstrate various poses which I likewise sketched.

Having finally settled on depicting a young lady with the form fixed as that particular pose from *Prelude Dance*, even a single hand holding the folding fan required manifold efforts.
When I had all the women in the household—from children to maids—hold folding fans in the same manner and attempted to sketch them, each and every one assumed a slightly different form.
From among these, I selected the best hand shape and redrew it as my ideal hand.
All emerges from sketching and is beautifully transformed into art.

This would surely become something good.

It goes without saying that creating fine works requires extensive study, but I believe what is most essential is what might be called "conviction"—a certain spiritual fortitude. Whenever I paint anything—no, from refining the concept even before painting begins—"This will surely become something good." I hold this conviction. The concept would come together, and I would finally try applying the underdrawing. When attempting this application, things sometimes went unexpectedly awry. Various miscalculations emerged. At such moments, abandoning that conviction of "This will surely become something good" meant certain failure. I would overcome my own timidity to fortify this conviction, tenaciously investigating how to improve and discern the source of each stumbling block. Through experience I learned that works encountering various failures along the way often resulted in better creations than those completed effortlessly. If one can sustain this spiritual fortitude throughout creation, no work will ever be made that brings regret when viewed in later years. I believe that whatever measure of this spiritual fortitude and self-discipline I possess flows through my mother's bloodline and owes to her steadfast encouragement.

Mother

Speaking of Mother, there was such an incident.
One year, even as the Bunten Exhibition deadline drew near, for some reason I simply could not bring my concept together, and I grew increasingly stubborn in my efforts.
Now that I think about it, it was during Meiji 42 (1909), at the time of the third Bunten Exhibition.
My mind grew irritated and frustrated.
Then it grew all the more disordered.
To my mother, who was always by my side, that state of mind of mine was immediately apparent.
“You should refrain from submitting anything this year.”
Though I had submitted works every year, not submitting this year alone felt regrettable, so I found myself quite unable to adopt such a mindset.
While I was still simmering with frustration yet persisting in my efforts, my mother would say:

“The Bunten Exhibition is, well, rather like a shop displaying everyone’s paintings. Try imagining viewing that shop from the vast sky. If you broaden your mind and consider things from the grand scheme, there’s no harm in skipping Bunten just once—you could submit something truly splendid next year instead. Just stop this year, stop it.”

It must have been Mother’s way of teaching me to maintain such confidence and self-assurance in my own paintings. There were times when Mother would completely transform my state of mind, like splitting bamboo with one clean stroke. At that time, I had nearly completed the concept for *Doll Manipulation*, but as the deadline for consolidating and finishing the work was too imminent, I refrained from submitting to that year’s Bunten Exhibition in accordance with Mother’s words. This *Doll Manipulation* was submitted the following year to the New and Old Art Exhibition, which had previously invited my participation. This was held in Italy.

Mother passed away two years ago in Shōwa 10 at eighty-six years of age, but until suffering a cerebral hemorrhage at seventy-nine, she had been so healthy that she had never once visited a doctor.
For seven years she was paralyzed on one side, but her mind remained clear until her passing.
It seems she read through all the many newspapers every day.

That I, at sixty-three years of age today, am able to devote myself this fully as a painter is something I attribute to having inherited my mother’s astonishingly robust health, self-discipline, and diligence.
Just before Mother passed away, one of my old disciples took her photograph and enlarged it on silk fabric, so it now hangs enshrined in our Buddhist altar room.
As this was captured with such lifelike clarity, one might almost think her living presence still dwells there.
Both my son Matsugaki and I would bow slightly when setting out on journeys,

We would bow our heads and say, “We’re off now,” and upon returning, naturally offer the greeting, “We’re back.”

Noh chants · Tsuzumi drumming · Nagauta ballads

As for side pursuits, I have been practicing Kongō school Noh chants for nearly twenty years.
I also perform Noh dance pieces.
I also practice tsuzumi drumming and nagauta ballads.
In the past, I practiced jiuta.
Though they are side pursuits, I do not consider these things mere pastimes.
Gathering together, I have come to feel these pursuits enrich my art.
In spring and autumn we hold Noh chant recitals, and I sometimes take the shite role to chant solo.
As my son Matsugaki also practices this, after I finish chanting,

“How was mine?” I asked.

“Regardless of skill, you certainly chant with dignified composure,” he said, so I couldn’t help but laugh.
Although my Noh teacher had also said, “Above all, chanting with genuine enjoyment is what truly matters,” even if there were some rises and falls in my performance, I was chanting with all my heart in good spirits, so there was no worry—only joy.

In painting, one must always keep one's ears and eyes open in all directions.

To paint, one must always keep one’s ears and eyes well-nourished.
In my youth, I studied Chinese classics under Master Ichimura Suikō and attended lectures on Chinese poetry by Master Nagao Uzan.
In my research on the costumes of each era, I made sure to attend the various exhibitions held during events such as dyeing festivals.
Bridal robes, Kaga Yūzen textiles, summer kimonos, and such could be viewed.
I attended plays as well, but unlike others who could relax and enjoy them casually, I always watched with my shoulders tensed.
I captured beautiful moments in sketches.
I also committed to memory the costumes and customs of each era.
Sometimes I also went to see movies.
Photographs of wild beasts and deep-sea fishing that revealed ecological details proved most fascinating, while scenes of beautiful landscapes and figures served as excellent references.
I never missed exhibitions of currently fashionable costumes either.
They were held at venues such as the Bijutsu Club, Public Hall, and Yasaka Club, but during busy times, I would visit as many as three locations in a single day.

When I kept observing persistently, I came to clearly understand how this year’s latest fashionable color was like this, and a classically-inspired trendy color was like that. I also attended design exhibitions, ceramic exhibitions, sculpture exhibitions, and the like.

The Realm of Painting Immersion

Fifty years with a paintbrush in hand—there is not a day when I do not hold my brush now.
Without a single distracting thought, I devote myself solely to painting study.
The time holding my brush brings utmost joy and preciousness—as though perfectly attuned to divine will—a sensation of unshakable composure.
I dwell in painting immersion.
Regarding art world squabbles, I feel like watching distant shore fires, unable to enter their swirling depths.
Before attaining this realm—just as life brings rains and winds, ships tilting near sinking—I too weathered countless seasons of hardship.
There were many earnest moments—whether facing artistic impasses or human agonies—when I truly believed death would bring more ease than enduring such torment.
Passing repeatedly through such trials shows how people can grow ever stronger in living.
Reflecting now, I cannot help but think my present artistic realm emerged through accumulated youthful sufferings—fused into unity and wholly purified through art.

My mind was filled with thoughts of painting all day long.
Nights were especially so.
The most precious time of my day was those forty or fifty minutes before entering sleep.
Ever since my youth, whenever I got into bed...
After reading for a while...
So I would turn...
I would stretch...
But no—after lying still...
beautiful colors would appear...
the image... would surface...
an illustrated scroll... would unfurl...
And before I knew it...
And the next night too...
When a week passed...

“I should retire early tonight,” I told others as well, and following my usual habit, when I went to lock up the studio, the painting I had created during the day suddenly caught my eye.
I took up my brush and added a stroke.
I flipped through the reference book beside me; I added another brushstroke.
When I noticed, the night had deepened.

At present, I think of nothing else but wanting to paint even slightly better works and leave behind worthy creations.
In Zen there is the phrase "a fire-lotus."
I do not know its profound meaning, but this is how I think of it.
The form of the lotus blazing open amidst raging flames strikes me as nothing less than a magnificent display burning with fierce resolve.
I have been holding particularly fast to this fervent resolve of late.
Though my years may decline, my fervent resolve toward painting seems to burn ever fiercer with each passing day.