Pathway to Japanese Literature

Among the memorials reduced to ashes by the conflagration, calling them historic sites might be an overstatement—yet there remained small ruins and buildings lost to the flames that were truly regrettable. Awashima Kangetsu’s old hermitage in Mukōjima stood as one such example. Now dwelling in a barrack-style structure on its former grounds, he aspired to restore the old retreat—yet even were it rebuilt, it would not resurrect the Bun'un-an that had once held the late Chingaku’s personal imprint.

Descending from the embankment near Kototoi in Mukōjima and proceeding a short distance past Ushi no Gozen’s torii, one found an Ōbaku Zen temple slightly set back on the left.
Speaking of Kōfuku-ji in Ushijima—founded by Zen Master Tetsunyu and paired with Zuishō-ji in Shirogane as one of only two Ōbaku-style Buddhist halls in Edo—it had been renowned since the Edo period.
This great temple complex—counted among Mukōjima’s notable sights—turned to ashes along with its treasures: the principal Buddha statue carved by Priest Shōun depicting a twirling flower smile, Tetsunyu’s blood-inked sutra scrolls, and other sacred objects. Now Bun'un-an at its gate—where Chingaku once dwelled—too perished in the conflagration: the circular Sanskrit plaque above its entrance; the paired pillars inscribed “Awaken but once to joyous devotion” and “Through ceaseless passions attain nirvana”; the small stone stupas and five-element pagodas moss-covered in bamboo thickets that had startled visitors with their eerie gaze; even the four-and-a-half-mat painting studio facing the courtyard where Chingaku formerly resided—all turned to scorched earth.
This studio, after Chingaku’s passing, had become Kangetsu’s workshop where he discoursed on Zen, composed comic poetry, painted mud paintings, and crafted dolls.
Those wishing to appreciate Chingaku’s unorthodox paintings that defied tradition must first visit this former dwelling and immerse themselves in the peculiar, serene desolation pervading the studio and garden—only then can they truly embody-read his works. But now, in this barrack-like temporary residence, not even a vestige of the old visage that might evoke the departed remains.

While Kangetsu’s name had long been known as the discoverer of Saikaku and a restorer of Genroku literature, in recent years his reputation as a painter had gradually risen to such heights that even at the burned-down Takeha main store in Shintomi-chō, they created what might be called a "Kangetsu Room"—from the sliding doors and fusuma partitions to the hanging scrolls, everything was thoroughly Kangetsu.
Kangetsu’s bold and unrestrained painting style had inherited the mantle of his predecessor Chingaku; thus, those appreciating Kangetsu’s works must trace their lineage further back to Chingaku.
Chingaku’s paintings—boldly unrestrained and iconoclastic in their disregard for traditional techniques—were considered a rarity in the stagnant, enervated art world of early Meiji. Yet tracing back to the era that birthed this aberrant genius to examine Chingaku’s family and milieu holds considerable interest in the cultural history of Meiji Japan.

Moreover, as Chingaku’s life spanned from the twilight of the Edo period through the dawn of Meiji, touching upon the vortex of old and new cultures, his biography recounts the cultural-historical and social aspects of what was perhaps the most ironic era.
Thus, Chingaku’s life holds far greater interest than ordinary artists’ biographies or tales of eccentrics, giving the sense that the defining traits of the transitional period’s distorted culture found their extreme personification through him.
To rephrase, Chingaku stood as one of those bizarre hybrids that symbolized this strange era—his entire life brimming with fascination, as if unfurling a picture scroll of civilizational upheaval stretching from Edo’s final years to Meiji’s beginnings.
Chingaku’s biography remains a profoundly fascinating fragment of Meiji cultural history.

(October 1924 Postscript)

Chingaku’s name had not been widely known among newer generations until a small exhibition was held at Nihonbashi’s Gabokudo ten years prior.
Even when exhibitions were held, those who received invitations and attended remained limited to an extremely small circle—indeed, most were people already well-acquainted with Chingaku. Thus even now, there were likely not a few who had neither seen his paintings nor knew his name.
A few years earlier, a certain newspaper had carried a rumor that Wada Misuzo, upon seeing Chingaku’s paintings, exclaimed in admiration: “How could Japan have such a master?”
Regardless of the rumor’s veracity, among the young artists who saw this newspaper, there were certainly not a few whose curiosity blazed at wondering what manner of formidable artist this “Chingaku” must have been.
Chingaku was no titan to rival Hogai or Gaho, yet his signature Ōtsu-e-style mud paintings—crude works that mocked societal conventions—had, just as he boasted in life (“My art’ll fetch its worth once I’m dead”), seen devotees multiply remarkably these fourteen or fifteen years. Even discarded fragments now commanded fierce bidding wars, treated as treasures.

Chingaku’s paintings fundamentally differed in essence from those works seen in modern exhibitions that competed through sheer quantity of pigments piled thickly upon the canvas.
Being mud paintings typically scrawled on cheap paper, they were ill-suited to adorn the alcoves of rural magnates, nouveaux riches, or daimyo mansions—yet within this inferior paper and ink blazed a rare, vigorous brushwork of unfettered freedom that dominated and overawed gilded screens and brocade-mounted paintings gleaming with opulence, much like a Zen master in ink-dyed hemp robes berating a priest clad in actor-like scarlet vestments to endure thirty blows.

What manner of man was this Chingaku?
Before recounting Chingaku, it was most fascinating—as a fragment of Edo culture—to first trace back through the lineage of the Awashima clan that had produced this extraordinary figure.

1. The Ancestor of the Awashima Clan—Bakurochō’s Karuyaki Shop

The reason Chingaku and Kangetsu came to use the surname Awashima was that when townspeople were required to register family names under the new policies of the Restoration, they adopted “Awashima” from their shop name Awashimaya due to its established recognition—their original family name had been Hattori.
Moreover, during the Restoration, Chingaku had in fact legally separated from Awashimaya and adopted the name Kobayashi Jōzō—thus he should rightfully be Kobayashi Chingaku rather than Awashima Chingaku. Yet because the public remained well-acquainted with his former shop Awashimaya, they continued to call him Awashima Chingaku, and he too persisted in using the Awashima name.
But this very ambiguity—whether he was truly Kobayashi or Awashima—suits Chingaku perfectly.
As for this matter of family registry separation, we shall defer it to later; first, let us speak of Awashimaya’s ancestors.

Hattori Kihee, ancestor of the Awashima clan, was four generations prior to the present Kangetsu and originally came from a farming family in Sangaya, Nagasa District, Kazusa Province (present-day Tsurueda Village). Born a second son who established a new household, he lost his wife young and fled his home province, leaving behind his small children. A naturally resourceful man, he made his living cutting paper shadow puppets and traveled nationwide as an eccentric wielding only a pair of scissors. He eventually settled in Edo’s Bakurochō district as a traveler’s inn “Gedai”—an indispensable factotum who drafted legal petitions for provincial visitors at Bakurochō’s magistrate office, offered consultations, ran errands, washed geta sandals, and handled any outdoor tasks for lodgers.

At that time, there was a wealthy farmer from Satte who frequently visited Edo for lawsuits. One year after this man forgot his wallet and returned home, Kihee safeguarded it meticulously. When the farmer returned the following year, Kihee verified every detail from the wallet’s striped pattern to its exact cash contents before returning it. This act forged a bond—impressed by Kihee’s honesty and competence, the farmer later asked him to become a live-in husband managing a relative’s household left destitute by her husband’s death.

Kihee agreed and moved to Satte as the young widow’s spouse, protecting her late husband’s children and reviving their nearly collapsed fortunes. This household—the Noguchi family—still prospers today; selected from Saitama as major taxpayers during early parliamentary years to serve in the House of Peers, they enshrine Kihee’s mortuary tablet even now.

After securing his position as Noguchi family guardian, Kihee brought his eleven-year-old son—left behind in Sangaya—to Satte. But strained relations with the stepmother drove the boy back to Edo, where he wandered Bakurochō relying on paternal connections for work. Among these ties was a fellow townsman running a small karuyaki shop, which he took over at sixteen—inheriting his father’s name as second-generation Hattori Kihee to launch what would become Awashima Karuyaki Shop.

The origin of “Awashimaya” remains unclear—whether coined by Kihee or preexisting—but shop signs and bags bore “Respectfully made by Awashima Iga-no-jō Sugawara Hidetaka of Asakusa Gomon-uchi, Bakurochō Yon-chōme.” Thus began the famed Awashima Karuyaki Shop.

2. Edo’s Famous Karuyaki—Karuyaki and Smallpox/Measles

The name Karuyaki is now almost forgotten.
Even balloon rice crackers—karuyaki’s successors—are forgotten these days, so you can hardly ever spot karuyaki even at downtown cheap candy stores.
Yet in its day, it was highly prized as one of Edo’s celebrated specialties.

Karuyaki appears to have been introduced through the Nanban trade.
The reason it came to be commonly called Maruyama karuyaki is that it was originally a specialty of Maruyama in Nagasaki before later shifting to Maruyama in Kyoto—karuyaki, like other cultural innovations of the time, appears to have gradually spread eastward from Nagasaki.
However, its arrival from Nagasaki to Kamigata dates back to a considerably early period; since the name "karuyaki" appears even in Saikaku’s works, it must have already been prized by Kamigata residents around the Tenna and Jōkyō eras.
It remains unclear precisely when karuyaki reached Edo, but the Kyōhō edition of Zoku Edo Sunako lists Myōgaya Kyūbee of Asakusa Seiganji-mae as a karuyaki vendor.
Myōgaya’s shop sign still exists today and is prized among collectors, so karuyaki must have been reasonably popular during the Kyōhō era.
It remains unclear just when the karuyaki shop inherited by the second-generation Kihee had first opened, but by that time, karuyaki shops were already found here and there, no longer anything particularly novel.

But the widespread dissemination of karuyaki throughout society—a confection prized as a rare treat imported from Nagasaki—stemmed from epidemics of smallpox and measles.
In the Edo period, these two diseases were so feared as critical junctures in children’s health that people said measles determined survival while smallpox determined one’s appearance.
To be sure, we remain vigilant against epidemics even today, but in those unsanitary times of old, they raged almost ceaselessly throughout the year.
Smallpox in particular—whose ferocity we can scarcely imagine today, now that vaccination reaches every corner—ravaged communities so violently that it afflicted even daimyo households and penetrated the innermost chambers of the shogun’s residence.
Yet all these diseases demanded strict dietary prohibitions where snacking was absolutely forbidden—save for karuyaki alone, permitted as harmless despite being akin to modern crackers or wafers.
Cherished for the auspicious wordplay linking its name “light-baked” to alleviating illness, these rice crackers gradually became exclusively used as snacks and get-well gifts for smallpox and measles patients.
Thus the more these diseases spread and were feared, the more karuyaki thrived.
Karuyaki sales remained inextricably tied to outbreaks of smallpox and measles throughout their history.

3. Nidaime Kihee’s Business Acumen

Nidaime Kihee had considerable business acumen.
Since karuyaki was prized as suitable for smallpox and measles patients, he began selling red papier-mâché woodcocks and daruma dolls—talismans against these diseases—alongside them.
He decorated the storefront with a large red daruma doll measuring about four shaku (approximately 1.2 meters) as a landmark.

At that time, as both medical knowledge and concepts of hygiene were still rudimentary, smallpox and measles were feared as the work of plague deities beyond human control, leaving people with no recourse but to pray to gods and buddhas for treatment.
Therefore, because they relied on superstition rather than medicine, the red papier-mâché woodcocks, red daruma dolls, and karuyaki crackers were their one and only divine remedy.

The color therapy for smallpox is said to have some medical basis, but I do not know since when this custom began—everything from bedding onward was dyed entirely red, with red wooden woodcocks, red daruma dolls, and other crimson playthings arranged by the pillow, while vermilion-printed picture books were even published as reading material for children with smallpox.
The karuyaki bags also featured vermilion prints of woodcocks and daruma dolls in accordance with this custom, but Kihee went further by creating new bag designs.
At that time, any colored prints by craftsmen could not be produced without joining the Picture Book Guild, so Kihee joined the guild for this purpose. Contrary to the common karuyaki bags of the day—printed only once in red—he created beautiful nishiki-e-like bags through meticulous multiple printings on woodblocks.
Since most patients of smallpox and measles were children, these bags quickly gained great fame and brought even greater prosperity.
(It is said that during Chingaku’s time, he personally created the underdrawings.)
For a time, karuyaki bags became prized among collectors and suddenly gained market value, but among them, Awashimaya’s were the most highly valued, commanding absurdly high prices for mere candy bags.
Nowadays, they are not as prized as during that peak period, but apparently still hold considerable value.)

Kihee’s business acumen left nothing to chance in spreading Awashimaya’s renown.
At that time, shrine and temple pilgrimages served as people’s sole leisure excursions, with popular deities drawing throngs of worshippers.
Unlike modern half-hearted sightseeing, even casual outings then carried genuine devotion—it was customary to first cleanse one’s hands at purification fountains before worship.
Since these washing areas became natural congregation points, Kihee conceived an idea: he began dedicating hand towels dyed with the arrowwheel crest and “Awashimaya Karuyaki Shop of Bakurochō” to purification areas at popular shrines—starting with Asakusa Kannon, then Fukagawa Fudō, Kanda Myōjin, Yanagishima Myōken, and other venerated sites.
Though unclear when towel dedications originated, Kihee indisputably ranked among the earliest and most vigorous pioneers of this advertising method.

The name Awashimaya had already spread through their beautiful nishiki-e-like bags, making the reputation of Awashimaya’s karuyaki as the finest in Edo grow ever greater, with people from the inner quarters of daimyo households to those in nearby provinces all spreading word of it and making special trips to Bakurochō to purchase them. If it wasn’t from Awashimaya, people began saying, the karuyaki not only lacked flavor but also failed to work as a talisman against smallpox and measles—so when epidemics struck, the shopfront became a marketplace where customers received numbered tickets one by one for orderly sales. Naturally, those who arrived late couldn’t obtain tickets, leading the shop to thrive so much that people would take tickets the day before and return the next day to make their purchases. The commotion was said to resemble patients vying for examination tickets at a university hospital’s outpatient clinic.

On the back of Awashimaya’s karuyaki bags was printed the following notice.
Though not particularly well-written, this notice makes clear nearly all the reasons Awashima Karuyaki sold so well; we therefore present its full text here as a specimen of period advertising.

Our shop’s karuyaki crackers are renowned as peerless in quality, and it is widely recognized that they pose no harm whatsoever to those afflicted with smallpox, measles, or other ailments. During the measles epidemic of Kyōwa 3 (1803), we distributed numbered tickets to manage demand—a testament to our unrivaled craftsmanship. Esteemed patrons have likened these crackers to “dissolving like bubbles on the tongue” or “vanishing as swiftly as foam,” and through your gracious favor, our Awashima-yaki has flourished beyond measure. With meticulous care in preparation, we now humbly present this renewed stock for times of epidemic. May these karuyaki—praised as “light-baked blessings”—leave no trace beyond a poppy-seed’s mark, even when gifted ceremonially. Since the Bunsei 7 (1824) measles outbreak, our daruma-printed bags have sold out despite abundant stock of layered and boxed sets. Through the divine grace of our local Inari shrine, our patrons’ children now acclaim them as “light-baked talismans.” With this reissued daruma design, we humbly request your continued patronage of our unchanged flavor. Respectfully submitted.

It was precisely this auspicious association—that following the above declaration would allow one to lightly overcome the great scourge of smallpox and measles without even leaving poppy-seed-sized pockmarks—that became the reason for karuyaki’s popularity, while the very prospect of Awashimaya’s shop name vanishing like bubbles paradoxically proved why the establishment flourished so exceptionally.

According to this notice, they apparently first sold using numbered tickets in Kyōwa 3 (1803), but even after that, during major smallpox and measles epidemics, they repeated this prosperity numerous times—Kihee’s business strategies succeeded splendidly, and Awashimaya grew remarkably wealthy.

It is said that even the first Kihee frequently came up to Edo in his later years, sitting at Awashimaya’s counter and exuding his innate flattery and charm to assist the business.
The first Kihee was indeed a man of many hardships who possessed personal virtue, but it was entirely through the efforts of the second-generation Kihee that the foundation of Awashimaya’s fortune was laid.

4. Comic Poetry Master Oka Rokurō Shōmei

The aforementioned notice was most likely a text drafted by Kihee himself.
Though not particularly well-written, Kihee—being a merchant with literary inclinations—had entered the Rikujūen school and adopted the pseudonym Oka Rokurō Shōmei.
As a comic poetry master, he was of course third-rate at best—Shōmei’s name remains little known even among specialist researchers of comic poetry—though it is said to appear in *Kyōka Sen*.

Kihee left no stone unturned in leveraging his talent for comic poetry to benefit his business.
At Asakusa’s annual year-end market (held on both the 17th and 18th days of the twelfth month), they produced uchiwa fans used in year-end mochi-pounding as seasonal karuyaki novelties, and printed on these fans a self-composed comic poem: “Offering fans that blow in good fortune with our seasonal wares—a diligent souvenir from the year-end market.”
This comic poem became a major attraction, and before long, people began saying that using Awashimaya’s fans to cool the mochi would bring good fortune.
In former times, most households would summon craftsmen to pound mochi at home, and particularly in downtown merchant households, the year-end mochi-pounding became an auspicious tradition—thus Awashimaya’s fans grew indispensable. At each annual year-end market, seasonal shoppers thronged the store, and young men from the fish market area reportedly took home five or six fans each.

5. Kagurazaka: An Account

Despite being such a man of talent, Shōmei remained single all his days—whether because his business kept him too occupied, or because securing suitable marriage proposals proved too challenging.

At that time, there was a town doctor named Enomoto in Kagurazaka, Ushigome.
His practice became so popular that merchants set up stalls before his gate daily, but yielding to his substantial income, he lived in luxury, keeping several concubines and fathering over sixty children.
One of these many daughters, named Orai, was a renowned beauty called the “Kagurazaka Guidebook.” When she reached marriageable age and retired from palace service, marriage proposals showered upon her.
Shōmei of Awashima Karuyaki was also among those who submitted a marriage proposal after hearing rumors of her beauty.

However, Enomoto—who maintained an extravagant lifestyle despite supporting a large family of over sixty members—appeared to be struggling financially. Though marriages from samurai households to merchant families were exceedingly rare at the time, the choice fell to Shōmei based on his wealth rather than lineage.
Shōmei, blessed with both commercial success and romantic fortune, finally struck gold as old age approached by taking a beautiful young bride.

Admittedly, by that time, Shōmei was no longer merely a karuyaki shop owner.
He had purchased the license to serve as official supplier of complete kitchen provisions for the shogunate’s inner palace, becoming a distinguished gentleman.
Even during the Tenpō famine years, when ordinary commoners were forbidden from stockpiling extra rice and had to secretly store it in chests, Awashimaya alone had attained a status that allowed them to openly pile up rice bales under the pretext of using them as raw material for paste to prepare the shogunate’s meals.
However, his wealth had no equal in the neighborhood, his wife was young and beautiful, and both material prosperity and romantic fortune converged all at once—but the toll of half a lifetime of striving brought sudden decline to his health just as his ambitions were fulfilled.
Moreover, his glamorous wife—after bearing two daughters through what some saw as ill-omened circumstances—soon passed away; yet this young and beautiful widow remained virtuous and skillfully upheld her wifely duties without tarnishing Awashimaya’s reputation.

6. The Child of a Kawagoe Farming Family - Chingaku and Itō Hachibē

In the village of Ogaya in Kawagoe, there was a wealthy farmer named Uchida.
(Even today, that household remains an established wealthy farming family.) In a branch family—also named Uchida—three boys were born.
The eldest son had shown boldness since childhood and was not the type to rot away pulling weeds in fields deep in the countryside; thus, he ventured to Edo alongside his peculiar younger brother Komesaburō—born in autumn—and entered service under Iseya Chōbee, the renowned pawnbroker of Koishikawa’s Dentsū-in temple precincts, then considered the foremost merchant in the upland districts.
This elder brother later became Itō Hachibē, and the younger brother became Tsubaki Gaku; therefore, the family home in Kawagoe was inherited by the second son and is said to continue unbroken to this day.

I do not know what circumstances led Chingaku’s brother to become Itō’s adopted son-in-law, but given that Itō’s shop was also called Iseya, one might infer he was perhaps from the main Isechō family and had been adopted through his master’s arrangement.

Itō was one of the powerful purveyors to the shogunate known as the Kyōbashi Ten at that time, possessing both an esteemed family lineage and considerable assets.
Yet his ascension to being revered as one of Japan’s great tycoons stemmed entirely from the relentless efforts of Chingaku’s elder brother Hachibē—for Itō Hachibē’s ventures at the twilight of the shogunate not only marked the crowning achievement of Edo’s merchant class but also inaugurated the first chapter of Meiji commercial history.

It was through the mediation of his elder brother Itō Hachibē that Komesaburō Tsubaki became the adopted heir of Awashimaya.
The self-congratulatory comic poem—“The gods of Izumo have bound Awashimaya, blessed by Ise Hachiman’s grace”—attests to the matrimonial path taken.
(The name Ise Hachiman derived from Itō Hachibē’s sobriquet “Ise Hachi.”) The daughter arranged for marriage was Okumi, the firstborn child of the previous Shōmei and Orai of Kagurazaka Guidebook. The second daughter was made to establish a branch family to run a pawnshop, with its adopted son-in-law taking the name Awashimaya Kahee.
The main family withdrew into artistic pursuits, but the branch family continues to prosper in Bakurochō to this day.
It was completely burned down in the earthquake fire, but after being rebuilt, it remains known as a long-established shop in the town.

Komesaburō Tsubaki was a man of refined tastes who had aspired to painting from an early age, not one of those merchant types who fattened their fortunes by tallying accounts on the abacus. From the outset he had aimed for samurai status—though through some twist of fate came to consider priesthood—until his elder brother’s mediation made him Awashimaya’s adopted son-in-law. Thus when financial freedom came, he promptly bought shares in a money-lending business (akin to modern banking) and, though nominally a townsman, adorned his entryway with wooden swords, tridents, and sleeve hooks—never satisfied to remain merely a karuyaki shopkeeper. Just then his elder brother Itō Hachibē had established an oil exchange at Honjo’s Aburabori Canal, managing grain taxes and other levies under the Mito domain’s authority; since this required dealings with Mito’s hereditary retainers and officials from various domains—resident agents and accountants among them—Itō assigned Tsubaki exclusively to handle these social liaisons.

Itō was a man singularly devoted to calculations and wholly illiterate—so culturally inept that he once left behind an eccentric anecdote: upon seeing Ōkyo’s painting of Wang Zhaojun, he asked Chingaku, “Is this Yaoya Oshichi?”
Thus, in business dealings requiring negotiations with samurai, the versatile Chingaku’s mediation became indispensable; his silver-tongued resourcefulness aided Itō to profit far beyond mere abacus calculations.

Itō Hachibē’s success reached its zenith during the Bakumatsu period, and he was counted as Edo’s foremost great financier.
During the Genji era (1864–1865), when the Mito Tengu Party finally prepared to raise their banner, Hachibē was summoned to Kōrakuen and ordered to procure 50,000 ryō in koban coins. He responded that securing koban would prove difficult but offered instead to furnish 30,000 ryō in nibukin coins—promptly gathering the nibukin and producing the full amount on the spot.
At the time of the imperial procession eastward during the Meiji Restoration, while the Mitsui conglomerate contributed 30,000 ryō, Hachibē presented 50,000 ryō.
Though the exact circumstances remain unclear, it is said that during the Meiji Restoration, they buried seven hundred thousand ryō of old gold and silver in a stone casket underground.
Hachibē’s financial power can be well imagined even from these facts alone.
Though his name remains relatively unknown in proportion to this, his lifelong enterprises and activities form an important page in the commercial history of the Meiji Restoration.
The garden of the former residence in Honjo—now Count Hotta’s estate—was designed by Chingaku during Itō’s zenith, created with no expense spared; every tree and stone retains traces of the Hachibē brothers’ extravagance and ingenuity.
I don’t know what became of it in the earthquake, but it has likely now fallen into utter ruin.
(Regarding Hachibē’s achievements, there exists a standalone biography I authored titled *The Great Itō Hachibē*, and Yoda Gakkai’s “Biography of Itō Hachibē” appears in the inaugural issue of *Taiyō*.)
A certain viscount of high repute in the business world was originally Hachibē’s servant, and his wife who passed away some years ago was indeed Hachibē’s child.)

7. Kobayashi Jōzō

Though Chingaku would later make his name as an eccentric recluse in old age, his younger years revealed considerable worldly ambitions that chafed against mere townsman status.
During his oil exchange tenure, he acquired the lineage rights of an abolished Mito branch family, adopted the name Kobayashi Jōzō, presented a thousand gold ryō to the Mito domain to receive hollyhock-crested court garments, and secured enrollment among sword-bearing samurai—thereby shedding his identity as a simple karuyaki shop proprietor.
Some have theorized Chingaku adopted the Kobayashi surname due to marital discord leading to separation from Awashimaya, but this constitutes pure fallacy.
The truth lay in his thirst for renown: having purchased the defunct samurai lineage to revive it, he maintained dual existence as both Kobayashi Jōzō of the newly established household and Awashimaya’s master—continuing to reside primarily at the cracker shop where he still commanded deference.

To be sure, at that time when even samurai were permitted to keep concubines and townspeople households saw their family morals decay further, Chingaku—already unrestrained by nature—took the name Kobayashi Jōzō, established a separate household, and welcomed into this Kobayashi household a woman who appeared to be his wife.
Today this would constitute bigamy, but in those days, when nearly all contemporaries practiced polygamy and having wives and concubines living together under one roof was hardly unusual, maintaining two wives was not considered particularly strange.
Given such social mores, Chingaku remained the master of two households, stroking his chin in satisfaction. However, Okumi—Awashimaya’s wife—possessed a headstrong and unyielding disposition; dissatisfied with Chingaku’s self-indulgent whims, she naturally grew more distant over time. Consequently, Chingaku came to deepen his affections toward his new wife at the Kobayashi residence.
Moreover, since Awashimaya’s fortune had been built by the previous generation, Chingaku—though serving as a retainer to the great Itō Hachibē—proved more adept at diminishing wealth than creating it, having done nothing to expand his adoptive family’s assets. Thus, it became inevitable for him to distance himself from Awashimaya under such circumstances; even after the Meiji Restoration, though they maintained mutual visits, their familial ties gradually faded.

Therefore, after the Restoration, they changed their original surname from Hattori to Awashima—more favorably recognized in society—and came to be called Awashima by the public; however, not only was their registered surname Kobayashi, but they had in fact established Awashimaya as a separate household.
Consequently, Chingaku’s successors split into two households: the legitimate line inherited the Awashima surname, while the illegitimate offspring took the Kobayashi name. However, the two households have since severed ties, and it is said the Kobayashi lineage now resides in Morioka.

However, whether as Kobayashi or Awashima, Tsubaki Gaku’s renown as a painter came to be celebrated in society only after the Restoration; prior to that, he had been Hattori Kihee—proprietor of the karuyaki shop in Bakurochō Fourth District—also known as Kobayashi Jōzō, a clerk at the oil exchange.
Yet even as he exercised his versatile wit to the fullest as Itō Hachibē’s strategist, Chingaku—at heart an aesthete who yearned for samurai status over townsman life, and for whom the abacus was never his true calling—parted ways with Itō when the Restoration reforms shuttered the oil exchange, leaving Awashimaya behind to embark on an entirely new existence.
From this point onward began Chingaku’s true life, in which he displayed his eccentricities to the fullest—his days as a karuyaki shop proprietor and oil exchange clerk being but his prehistoric era.

8. Life in Asakusa: From the Great Telescope to Caretaker of Awashima Hall

Awashima Chingaku’s life in Asakusa lasted from after the Meiji Restoration until around Meiji 12 or 13.
This era marked the zenith of Chingaku’s eccentricity.

Chingaku had parted ways with Itō Hachibē at the dawn of the Meiji Restoration, but as Itō was still thriving at that time, Chingaku’s coffers remained rather ample.
He frequently provided financial assistance to Denbō-in Temple in Asakusa, which led him to form a close relationship with Yuiga Kyōshin, the temple’s chief priest at that time.
This Kyōshin, being a man of refined tastes with a penchant for eccentric hobbies, found kindred spirits in Chingaku; the two became inseparable friends who visited each other day and night, sharing their passion for artistic pursuits.
At that time, Chingaku wore the face of one who had already renounced worldly fame and profit, but it seemed the abacus mentality from his days as an oil exchange clerk had not yet left him—for he was brimming with mercantile ambition, plucking the beads of calculation with equal parts whimsy to astonish society and avarice to strike it rich in one bold venture.
Around that time, when a whimsical foreigner brought diorama antiques to Yokohama, Awashima Chingaku promptly purchased them. After consulting with Yuiga Kyōshin, he cleared a tea field adjacent to Denbō-in Temple’s garden, erected a large hut modeled after a Western-style ship, and devised a spectacle where viewers peered through portholes at oil paintings of European landscapes and battle scenes. Using portraits of Napoleon and the Pope as signage, he promoted this attraction under the name “Western Peep Show,” stoking public curiosity.
After all, this was around Meiji 2 or 3 (1869–1870), an era when even Western-style painters of the Kangai school had rarely seen Western newspaper illustrations. Thus, it instantly became the talk of Tokyo, drawing everyone from trend-chasing advocates of civilization and enlightenment to high-ranking officials and nobles.
The height of its popularity was nowhere near today’s Imperial Exhibition.
Kawakami Tōgai—the founder of Western-style painting in Japan—who knew of the term through his connection to Yūkei, wrote out the sign in katakana as “Diorama.”
Even Saigō-don—who wouldn’t flinch even if Mount Tai crumbled before him—was lured by the buzz and made a special visit; deeply impressed, he graciously inscribed a large plaque reading “Bankoku Ichiran” (All Nations at a Glance).
With such endorsements from high officials and distinguished families further inflaming its popularity, it became said that anyone who hadn't seen Asakusa's Western Peep Show couldn't call themselves an advocate of civilization and enlightenment. Throngs formed daily with each visitor vying to be first, through which Chingaku reportedly made a clean profit of three thousand yen in one stroke.

While even an errand boy could effortlessly earn three thousand yen today, three thousand yen in that era—when entire daimyo residences and retainers' estates in Ogawamachi or Banchō were being sold off at ten yen per thousand tsubo—was by no means easily obtained. Thus did Chingaku's genius, having seized this extraordinary profit with such ease, prove itself no disgrace as brother to the remarkable Itō Hachibē.
But Chingaku, having renounced worldly desires, did not wish to become fixated on greed, leaping from one moneymaking scheme to another like a monkey darting from tree to tree in search of nuts.

Around Meiji 7 and 8 (1874–1875), the temple precincts in Asakusa were renovated into a park.
The neighboring land of Denbō-in Temple where Chingaku lived was seized and substitute land granted, but he filed a complaint: "I don't like this replacement—now there's nowhere left for me!"
When Yuiga Kyōshin of Denbō-in Temple quipped half in jest, "Well then, Awashima Chingaku—why not dwell in Awashima Hall?" the ever-theatrical artist—never one to refuse a good performance—immediately embraced the idea. Thinking how amusing it would be to indulge his whims before becoming the hall's caretaker, he assumed the role from that day onward.

As for what deity Awashima Hall enshrined—the object of worship remained unknown. Some said it enshrined Hikohohodemi no Mikoto; others claimed it jointly enshrined Empress Jingū and Emperor Ōjin; still others argued it represented a female deity. But this was indisputably a branch shrine of Katsu’s Awashima Shrine in Kishū Province—a goddess protecting all women’s arts like sewing and curing women’s ailments. However, Awashima Hall within these temple grounds stood as a relic of syncretism—adorned with Buddhist altar implements where priests performed rituals—and so Chingaku too shaved his head in monastic fashion, took the name Hon’an, and for a time served as caretaker of the Awashima deity.

It was during his tenure as caretaker of Awashima Hall that Chingaku displayed his true nature to the fullest, whereupon his reputation for eccentricity swiftly spread throughout the capital. In those days, those who came taking turns from morning till night were none but fellow eccentrics and oddities; together they did nothing but paint and appraise curios for amusement. The previous Ōkōchi Viscount, Shimooka Renjō, and Kanagaki Robun were among the frequent regulars of that time. When visitors came, Hon’an-bōzu would put on a pious face, mumble incoherent sutras at will while lighting candles, then promptly blow them out upon their departure—his nonchalant expression thoroughly baffling people. Yet among the faithful spread word that this new caretaker was an admirably devout man.

Awashima Chingaku lived in Asakusa from after the Meiji Restoration until around twelve or thirteen years later.
This era marked the pinnacle of Chingaku’s eccentric genius—when he most fully displayed his talents and cemented his reputation for oddity—forging an association between Chingaku and Asakusa that would remain indelibly linked.
He left Asakusa after Meiji 12 or 13 (1879–1880), whereupon he delighted in Buddhist chants, the sound of rain, and the melodies of biwa and shamisen at Bun'un-an in Ushijima.

9. Chingaku’s Character: The Uncompromising Maverick – A Study in Contradictions

What genius blood flowed through Kawagoe’s Uchida family—from which Chingaku originated—remains unknown, but while his eldest brother Itō Hachibē ended his days in relative obscurity, he once amassed a fortune that proclaimed him as “the great Itō Hachibē,” and his younger brother Chingaku lived out his days as an enigmatic painter who mocked the world.

However, Chingaku was neither a born aesthete nor a true eccentric.
In truth, he was a man of five parts affectation, three parts mercantile ambition, and brimming with domineering spirit—his artistic sensibility amounting to a mere two parts.
By nature a showman and pretentious to the core, he who aspired to samurai-class long sleeves over peasant or townsman status—purchasing Mito samurai lineage rights under his brother Itō Hachibē’s patronage—strutted about playing the warrior with smugness.
But when he observed the shogunate’s collapse, the complete transformation of the times, and Itō’s fortunes—which had been riding high on favorable winds—beginning to decline, his natural ambition derailed and veered into an utterly depraved existence.
Chingaku’s ideal in life offered only two paths: either to triumph over the secular world and flaunt his extravagance, or to sulk at society and mock it—there existed no third way.

Chingaku was a genius of versatile talents and effortless adaptability who paid gracious compliments to everyone. He never excluded a soul. He dispensed flattery so skillfully even to household servants that they praised him as "There's no master more adept at compliments than ours." It was precisely this versatile genius that Itō Hachibē employed; once becoming the oil exchange's diplomatic envoy, he further honed these skills. In his later years of eccentric living, he grew increasingly seasoned with age, interacting with all without social misstep—even opening up to first-time acquaintances like century-old friends, never once letting his expression betray discomfort.

However, this versatile wit was innate yet refined over long years; it was never meant to curry favor with others.
Moreover, his social grace proved so excessive that he would single-handedly dominate conversations and interactions, which conversely made people feel awkward; he was often told, “When Mr. Chingaku comes, the atmosphere turns stiff.”
His social dexterity had grown excessively overbearing.
He was a wily old fox—a seasoned hand at social interactions—but not one to flatter others with empty compliments while gauging their reactions.

Even after becoming the Awashima family’s adopted son, he showed not a trace of the obsequious demeanor typical of a son-in-law fussing over his wife’s moods.
Because he conducted household affairs with complete self-indulgence, the servants praised him as an excellent master, but his wife neither trusted nor particularly cherished him.

After purchasing shares in a moneylending business and achieving part of his long-cherished ambition, he decorated his entrance with wooden swords, barbed poles, and sleeve entanglers, maintaining an imposing demeanor as he looked down upon the row of townhouses.
An ordinarily smooth-talking flatterer would have found neighborhood interactions unremarkable, but this stubborn man who detested defeat considered nothing more humiliating than kowtowing at the town headman’s entrance every New Year’s Day to offer greetings—a revelation proving he was never truly a humble, tactful man at heart.
After becoming Kobayashi Jōzō and presenting a thousand gold ryō to Lord Mito to receive Aoi-crested ceremonial robes, he once rode into the neighborhood on horseback wearing these garments and chanced upon the town headman.
At that time, when the Aoi crest’s authority still commanded awe, the headman—upon seeing the crested robes—panicked and prostrated himself in reverent obeisance.
He rejoiced at finally being able to soothe the resentment accumulated from years of forced kowtowing—a satisfaction akin to heartburn subsiding.
Though his surface demeanor suggested a smooth-talking people-pleaser adept at charming all, the truth was that Awashima Chingaku remained an obstinate, haughty soul who disdained yielding to anyone.

10. Chingaku's Eccentric Deeds

Saku-san’s Kenai Dayū Initiation · Tokyo’s First Piano Performer · Chingaku’s Honorable Biwa · Temple Gate Life and Hall Caretaking · A Group of Asakusa Eccentrics · Chingaku’s Kimono · Chingaku’s Residence · Tengu Room · Feminine Diversions · The Decadent Atmosphere of Early Meiji

Chingaku, who detested defeat, would confront anyone from his youth onward and never regarded people as fully human.
At that time there existed a Kiyomoto instructor named Kenai Dayū in Yokoyama-chō.
Chingaku became this master’s disciple and began practicing Kiyomoto—but kept his status as head of Awashimaya secret from both family and teacher alike—posing instead as a clerk or craftsman under the name Saku-san.
Some time later when Chingaku’s daughter (Kangetsu’s elder sister) joined the same master, Kenai Dayū once remarked: “It seems your shop’s Saku-san has risen in society—lately he’s been riding about on horseback.”
As there was no Saku-san at their establishment, Chingaku’s daughter grew puzzled. Gradually inquiring about this Saku-san’s circumstances and deducing from the horseback riding that it must be her father, she revealed: “Then that’s my father.” Upon hearing this, Kenai Dayū was reportedly astonished to learn the truth for the first time.
Chingaku conducted all affairs in this manner of mocking others.

The audacious eccentric deeds of Chingaku since his Asakusa days originated from this very attitude of mocking people.
Around Meiji 4 and 5 (1871–1872), when pianos and violins first arrived in Yokohama, the novelty-loving Awashima Chingaku promptly purchased them and held a Western musical instrument exhibition at a rented hall in Kanda Imagawabashi.
To modern ears this name sounds utterly bizarre, but at the time it carried a distinctly fashionable air—on that day, the so-called novelties of civilization and enlightenment clashed together in forced combination.
Before this hushed audience where you could hear a pin drop, Chingaku sat at the piano with solemn dignity and began pounding the keys haphazardly, producing loud, jarring notes.
After all, this was an era when Western music meant little more than a few proponents of civilization and enlightenment having just heard British soldiers’ bugles in Yokohama—so the entire audience, bewildered and rolling their eyes as they were made to listen, found themselves utterly overwhelmed before bursting into vigorous applause and thunderous cheers.
Over a decade before the Ministry of Education established the Music Investigation Committee, Awashima Chingaku was likely the first Japanese to perform—or rather, pound—the piano before a public audience.
(This piano was later purchased by the proprietor of Hikotarō Ōwaraya in Yoshiwara.)
This proprietor of Hikotarō Ōwaraya was the foremost foolishly arrogant grandee in the pleasure quarters of his time—a descendant of Byōan and Bunrō’s lineage—who indulged in such extravagance that he wore pure white ceremonial robes and demanded to be addressed as “Lord,” while maintaining a collection of five hundred prized omoto plants as a connoisseur.
He bought the piano not out of musical inclination, but rather through an arrogant folly born of his obsession with collecting curiosities.
But that Japanese Western music was pioneered by Chingaku and the proprietor of Hikotarō Ōwaraya constitutes a rather bizarre secret history little known to Meiji-era music historians.)

Awashima Chingaku was proficient in numerous arts—a polymath who had even obtained a license in kemari.
During his residence at Tamagakugahara, when a certain person came to visit unannounced, the lively clamor—ranging from dodoitsu ballads to jinku folk songs with their boisterous vigor—led them to assume that a grand drinking party with guests was underway. They stood hesitating outside for some time, but as this seemed increasingly unlikely, they finally made their presence known at the entrance. The shamisen abruptly ceased, and out appeared a perfectly sober, earnest Chingaku who declared: “Oh my, well now! Today the whole household has gone out, leaving me rather at loose ends—I’ve just been brewing bancha and amusing myself alone here.”
His talents were indeed numerous, but he also engaged in such antics of turning society into a joke.

Chingaku’s many talents were renowned, but among them were skills that thoroughly mocked people.
Chingaku ordinarily cherished his biwa and never let it leave his side, so when people spoke of Chingaku’s biwa playing, it was reputed to be that of a true master.
However, in truth, he had only ever received basic instruction.
Around that time, Fukuchi Ōchi prided himself on his biwa skills, and while many were vexed by his playing, they couldn’t help but admire it.
Never one to back down, Awashima Chingaku grew impatient—if Ōchi could play, then so could he—and without hesitation or fear before anyone, he would vigorously strum the strings, improvising his own melodies as he boisterously bellowed passages from The Tale of the Heike.
Overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity and imposing demeanor, those who heard him were mostly impressed by what they took to be skillful nonsense, so in the end, Chingaku came to be regarded as a biwa master.
Awashima Chingaku was undoubtedly proficient in various arts, but among them were many that mocked people in this manner.

Chingaku's temple gate life too stands as a famous anecdote.
It was around the time he began using a spyglass.
With nowhere else to stay, Awashima Chingaku obtained permission from Denbō-in Temple to reside in its gatehouse while overseeing the spyglass installation, boasting with great pride: "Since ancient times, the only ones to have lived in temple gates must be Ishikawa Goemon and myself!"
When someone asked if he must find it quite inconvenient, he reportedly replied that there was no inconvenience at all—the only hardship was having to go empty the chamber pot every morning.
It appears that even Awashima Chingaku, in his temple gate residence, found himself troubled by the chamber pot at night.

Awashima Chingaku would become the caretaker of Awashima Hall several years later, but his inspiration for this role—a spur-of-the-moment monk earnestly mumbling sutras and lighting candles one night with sudden religious fervor—sprang from the same irreverent wit that had driven him to reside in temple gates. One can imagine the climate of religious dissolution in those early Meiji years, when faith had decayed even more profoundly than in our present day.

Asakusa now had movie theaters lining its streets with glittering illuminations; even when utterly destroyed by earthquakes, it revived in an instant; even when the Twelve-Story Tower collapsed, the white-haired denizens infesting its lower floors still lurked about, offering the basest of post-disaster urban pleasures.
However, while earthquakes had destroyed it first, the destructive forces of the Restoration reached Asakusa last, so until around Meiji 14 and 15 (1881–1882), the atmosphere of Edo still lingered in Asakusa.
One reason was that surviving elders of Edo like Awashima Chingaku, Shimooka Renjō, and Ukai Sanji had strangely gathered within temple grounds and vigorously indulged in Edo-style pursuits.
This Ukai Sanji was an eccentric genius with profound scholarly knowledge and expertise in appraisal—one who had pioneered the study of photography ahead of even Renjō—and for a time served as Machida Hisanari’s antique advisor.
When this stubborn Edo connoisseur gathered ear-cleaning tools and tried to launch a business harking back to the Genroku era, his fellow eccentric Takahashi Yuichi—refusing to be outdone—somehow acquired the shade of Shidōken’s tree to plot street lectures, planning to rival Chingaku’s Asakusa paintings and vigorously exude Edo’s spirit in triumvirate fashion.
At that time, Tokunō Ryōsuke—head of the Printing Bureau—had been close with Elder Ukai. Upon hearing this rumor, he grew genuinely concerned and hired the old man as a freely assigned employee at the bureau to tie him down with official duties. Consequently, the plan was ultimately abandoned, and Takahashi’s Shidōken venture also came to naught.

Whether they seriously intended to carry it out remains unclear, but this was such a whimsical era that even these jest-filled plans nearly came to fruition.

Chingaku detested conventional kimonos.
Declaring narrow-cut garments fit only for craftsmen, he exclusively wore loose-fitting robes.
At times he sported plain cloth kimonos crudely striped with mud pigments.
In his twilight years this eccentricity intensified—he would procure imported brocaded spreads, slash a central hole to don like a poncho, then fashion dangling fabric at his arms into makeshift sleeves, creating an outfit that billowed about him like some phantom lantern-plant apparition.
So convinced was he of this attire's perfection that he proudly commissioned a photographic portrait.
The relief sculpture of Awashima Chingaku exhibited at Hattori Chōhachi's plasterwork portrait hall—that popular spectacle—had been modeled from this very photograph.

Chingaku disliked not only kimonos but all store-bought goods—everything had to be handmade. For paper holders and coin purses too, he absolutely never used ready-made ones from bag shops, making do with whatever bags were at hand. It was in Chingaku’s nature to never rest until he had expressed his individuality in everything—even when he occasionally purchased ready-made items from town, he would invariably apply some Chingaku-style modification.

To his dwelling he lavished unexpected aesthetic refinements. The Bun'un-an in Mukōjima that burned down in the earthquake was none other than Chingaku's former residence—not only were the entrance plaque and couplets self-made, but even the stone monuments and wooden stupas casually placed among the garden's dwarf bamboo grove exemplified his unique artistic style. When one settled on the veranda of this small cottage facing the garden, a peculiar mood would arise in anyone.

Particularly striking was the decorative window embedded in the wall of the 4.5-tatami room where Chingaku lived—a firelight-shaped frame created by bisecting and joining aged kawaramata brackets in prayer-hand formation. At its center hung a Kamakura-period iron ebi-jō lock on weathered wooden doors whose exposed grain bore time's patina, exuding quintessential Chingaku ambiance.

What demonstrated his individuality more intensely was a room adjoining this chamber—windowless on three walls though destroyed twenty years prior. He had covered walls with cedar bark painted with mud-pigment branches, cut crescent-shaped holes in tatami corners, and introduced faint light from below—all evoking a vast forest so dark it remained shadowy at noon. This space came to be called the "tengu room."

Imagine Chingaku’s self-satisfied smile as he sat formally in that dim chamber—face barely visible—vigorously strumming his treasured biwa. This would likely stand as the most fascinating episode in any eccentric’s biography—utterly unimaginable in our urgent modern age.

Chingaku’s womanizing too should be counted among his eccentric deeds.
However, we must append one annotation here: originally among Edo’s so-called connoisseurs, there existed a tradition of viewing romantic affairs as refined elegance, so the womanizing of Edo’s sophisticates cannot be universally condemned as mere misconduct.
This decadent fascination was born from the cultural overripeness of Edo, so the purchasing of courtesans and keeping of concubines during the Edo period were not necessarily indecent—within them lay emotional nuances rich with poetic charm that deserve to be savored.
By today’s moral standards, the kind of pleasure epitomized by the customary harmonious conclusion of sentimental novels—the tripartite ensemble of wife and concubines—would warrant nothing but disdain, but in the Edo period, this was considered a beautiful ideal among wealthy households.

However, when provincial samurai assigned to Edo posts or visitors like Mokujūta Gosaku purchased courtesans, they lacked this Edo sensibility. As a result, in plays and ninjōbon stories, such Ta Gosaku and provincial samurai became universally despised as uncouth, overly persistent figures.
Through the revolution of the Meiji Restoration, Edo’s refined culture was ravaged by provincial samurai running rampant, and the distinctive ambiance of the pleasure quarters—unique to Edo—was utterly destroyed from its foundations, reduced to nothing but a dreary flesh market.
The practice of keeping concubines too became stripped of its former elegance—for these provincial samurai treated it as just another spoil of conquest. All traces of that distinctive Edo-era ambiance, whether in samurai households or merchant-class kept women, vanished completely, leaving a mood no different from acquiring colonial-era “bay wives” or “Manchurian wives.”
The newly acquired concubines of upstart provincial samurai—who forgot their hometown wives who had shared their hardships—were called *kenzuma* and became a mark of gentlemanly status; the more frequently they replaced these *kenzuma*, the more they were envied by others and took pride in themselves.

In such an era of moral anarchism, people's conduct had to be evaluated by carefully considering the historical context.
Having long steeped himself in the decadent air of Edo’s twilight years, Awashima Chingaku now encountered this era of moral anarchism—and thus his libertine temperament, which already dismissed society’s praise and censure as no more consequential than a loofah’s worth, combined with both the Edo sophisticate’s desire for elegant dalliances and Tokyo’s decadent mood ravaged by licentious provincial samurai, inevitably coalesced into rampant womanizing.
Awashima Chingaku kept constantly swapping concubines—so much so that whenever he encountered a woman more beautiful than his current mistress while passing by, he would immediately replace her—and having thus acquired over 160 concubines in his lifetime, this stands as yet another of his eccentricities poisoned by his era’s noxious atmosphere.
However, to dismiss Chingaku’s womanizing as mere licentiousness is a fallacy that ignores the era.

Awashima Chingaku had temporarily resided in Senzoku two or three years before his death.
As women’s short hairstyles had become fashionable around that time, Awashima Chingaku had his wife (of the Kobayashi family) crop her hair into a close-cropped style, introducing her to visitors by saying, “This is the nun of our temple.”
Most guests became flustered during their greetings.
It was during this period that when a young literatus came to visit Chingaku, the artist immediately declared, “Well done coming here!”
Even this young man—with his considerable Zen expertise—found himself more discomposed by Awashima Chingaku’s “Well done coming here!” than he would have been by the stern rebuke of an elder Zen master.

If one were to enumerate Awashima Chingaku’s eccentric deeds, they would prove nearly endless—from morning till night, his days formed an unbroken chain of peculiar behavior.
The principle of “art as life” found true realization through Awashima Chingaku, so his entire existence became a complete work of art—as bold and unrestrained as his paintings themselves.
Therefore, to appreciate Awashima Chingaku’s paintings, one must first understand his life—only through knowing that life could one truly grasp the authentic essence of his art.
The subtle allure of Awashima Chingaku’s paintings resonated with his eccentric deeds, creating a sense that their appeal deepens all the more through this correspondence.

XI. The Painter Chingaku

Chingaku's Artistic Talent and Motivation for Studying Painting

It appears that artistic blood flowed through the Uchida family of Kawagoe—Awashima Chingaku’s birthplace—for painters were said to have existed in both his ancestral home and its main family branch.
Chingaku too had demonstrated artistic talent since childhood—fusuma screens he painted at twelve or thirteen reportedly still remain in the Kawagoe household—though one might imagine that even in any rural farmer’s home, such fusuma painting would not have amounted to the crude freehand scribbles of a Hemamushi Nyūdō (a monk notorious for slapdash doodles) or the lumpish *hehenonomoheji* (stylized facial sketches).
Chingaku’s artistic gift was undoubtedly innate.

However, he formally began studying painting only after becoming the adopted son of Awashimaya.
Given that he had aspired since childhood to become a scholar-artist—though one cannot entirely rule out that he lacked any serious intention to establish himself as a proper painter—it seems he likely began dabbling in art more as a wealthy man’s pastime pursuing his interests rather than aiming to make painting his livelihood, for Awashimaya was thriving at the time, and his elder brother Itō Hachibē was enjoying a meteoric rise.

Chingaku's Artistic Lineage

It was Ōnishi Toshinen whom Awashima Chingaku regarded as his teacher and presented the ceremonial offering to.
At that time, Toshinen had opened a painting school in Kuramae, so rather than out of admiration for Toshinen’s style, it was likely due to its proximity to his home in Bakurochō that Chingaku entered his tutelage.
The art name "Chingaku" was granted by taking one character from his teacher's name.
Toshinen was a disciple of Nangaku, who in turn had studied under Genki—a distinguished pupil of Ōkyo—thus making Chingaku a great-great-grand disciple in Ōkyo’s orthodox lineage.

During his Bakurochō period, Chingaku’s paintings meticulously adhered to his teacher’s methods without the slightest neglect.
The surviving works from his youthful period in that era—such as Swallows Adorning Themselves, formerly owned by Awashima Kahee and exhibited at the recent Chingaku retrospective—are purely Toshinen-school in style; those acquainted only with his unrestrained late-period paintings would likely dismiss them as forgeries at first glance.
However, being something passed down in that household, even if lacking artistic appeal, these works attest to Chingaku’s master’s lineage.
(This painting was put up for sale by the Awashima family some years ago, so its current ownership remains unknown.) After Toshinen’s death, he studied under Takaku Ryūko, and following Ryūko’s passing, devoted himself to mastering sketchbooks of Japanese paintings while also receiving instruction from Yōsai.
He appears to have been particularly devoted to Ryūko, as traces of Ryūko’s brushwork remained evident even in his late works.
The bold and vigorous brushwork characteristic of Asakusa-e paintings was likely acquired not from Toshinen but rather from Ryūko.
Yet it is immediately apparent that he derived far more from studying the bold and stylish painting styles of Kakuyū, Buson, Taiga, Soshō, and others than from his formal teachers’ lineage.

Moreover, he had an insatiable fondness for novelty, and after the Meiji Restoration studied Western painting—progressing from watercolors to oils. He associated closely with Wagman, a British painter who had arrived during the early Meiji years. Though he likely never seriously apprenticed under Wagman, it appears he did receive instruction in various Western painting techniques—brush handling, pigment application, and such. Given that Awashima Chingaku was listed under both Japanese and Western painting in artist rankings from around Meiji 8-9 (1875-1876), he appears to have been recognized to some degree as a Western-style painter. The watercolors and oils by Chingaku that survive today remain extremely immature works, but if—as the rankings suggest—he was acknowledged even modestly as a Western-style painter, then his name deserves transmission as one of the pioneers in Japan’s Western-style painting history.

Though Awashima Chingaku's watercolors and oil paintings were immature works with no value beyond historical interest, his expertise in Western-style painting gave fresh creative impulses to coloring and composition—evident throughout their execution.
This distinctive quality manifested clearly in works like Floral Painting from the collection of Mr. Hirono Kenji—exhibited at a recent exhibition—which could have held its own in freshness even when displayed alongside works by today's young avant-garde watercolorists.

Chingaku's paintings possessed such profound foundational depth that while formally belonging to the Toshinen school, he thoroughly explored whatever styles appealed to him—making them entirely his own—and without being constrained by sectarian conventions, transformed Kakuyū, Buson, Taiga, Ōkyo, and even Toshinen himself into extensions of Chingaku's artistic vision.
Yet even as he painted with such unbridled freedom and caprice, his work remained grounded in craftsmanship honed through years of rigorous study—it was never the case that he achieved mastery through haphazard scribbling from the outset.

Chingaku’s Life as a Painter

Chingaku studied painting not to sell his works.
Even while associating with painters, he did not wish to be called a painter.
For calligraphers and painters of that era, holding *shogakai* was a means to promote their names—as it was their sole available strategy.
Today’s Hyakugakai is an evolved form of those *shogakai* of that era—but whereas today’s Hyakugakai serves as a livelihood means for unknown minor painters, those earlier *shogakai* primarily aimed not at selling paintings but at promoting reputations, being frequently hosted even by renowned calligraphers and painters when exhibitions did not exist and artists had no other way to introduce themselves to society.
There was hardly a single painter or literatus who did not hold *shogakai*.

The organizers of these *shogakai* were art supply dealers akin to present-day Haribara and Kiyu, while in Edo at that time, a shop called Senmentei in Bakurochō—which conducted business on an even larger scale than today’s Haribara—served exclusively as coordinators. Through neighborhood fellowship, Awashima Chingaku maintained an exceptionally close relationship with Senmentei’s owner; despite having such an advantageous connection, he never once held a *shogakai*.

Of course, Awashima Chingaku was the head of a wealthy merchant family and had no need to promote his reputation as a painter. However—and this was not limited to that era—whenever the wealthy attained sufficient riches, they inevitably craved fame; such was the universal psychology of moneyed classes throughout history, driving them to absurd lengths in reputation-seeking. Particularly among Edo’s affluent merchant households during the Bakumatsu period’s decadent cultural zenith, most affected an air of cultivated refinement—if they managed to compose even one clumsy haiku or daub out a single awkward painting, they would immediately swell with pride and presume themselves professional artists. That he possessed sufficient skill to establish himself as a painter yet spurned self-promotion—never once hosting a *shogakai* exhibition—testified to Awashima Chingaku’s discernment in rejecting the pseudo-cultured vanity of common townspeople. Even when contributing thousands of yen to others’ art gatherings as befitted a magnanimous patron’s privilege, he disdained joining the ranks of painters who peddled their wares for sustenance.

This magnanimous disposition remained undiminished even after his era as a wealthy merchant passed and he began living in Asakusa; he still enjoyed painting as an elegant pursuit, never once entertaining the thought of selling his works to make a living.
Works like his mud paintings—those that showcased Chingaku’s individuality—were simply unthinkable as art meant for sale.

Chingaku’s Mud Paintings

Awashima Chingaku’s mud paintings were works created by mixing low-grade pigments—such as red oxide, yellow ochre, vermilion, ultramarine, white shell powder, and malachite green used for coloring votive plaques and single-block dolls—with a small amount of ink. Not only that, but there were also times when he would crush clay gaming pieces and fragments of old bricks to dissolve into pigments, and break off branches from dead trees to use as brushes. Moreover, he used low-quality paper such as Ryukyu paper, and when inspired, he would paint on anything—whether it was waste paper, Asakusa paper, the backs of scrap sheets, bamboo bark, or even box lids. Mud pigments did not harmonize with silk or torinoko paper; rather, it was on low-quality paper and coarse materials that their unique charm was brought out.

Concerning these mud paintings, there exists an amusing anecdote.
Until about twenty years ago, there was a long-established paper shop called Naraya at the foot of Kaiun Bridge in Nihonbashi.
The owner of this Naraya was still young at the time but, being an Edo connoisseur from the previous generation’s tradition, associated widely with literary figures and artists.
One day, Awashima Chingaku strolled in and said to the proprietor: “Lots of folks come to me asking for paintings, but they only bring paper and never any silk. How about it—let me paint on some silk for you?”
“In that case, how about having him paint on the lining of a haori?” suggested the proprietor of Naraya, promptly ordering white habutae silk and making the request.
Whether Awashima Chingaku had long disliked Naraya’s proprietor—a novice putting on airs as a connoisseur—or whether the mention of “haori linings” simply grated on his nerves, he painted a hellish transformation scene in one breath using his signature mud pigments.
As it was an exceptionally splendid result, the proprietor of Naraya was greatly pleased and promptly had a haori tailored with this painting as its lining. But when he put it on—whether intentionally or accidentally—it appeared the glue had failed to hold, and the pigment clung thickly to his garment.
Naraya would thereafter scratch his head and give a pained smile whenever Chingaku’s name came up, muttering that he’d had quite enough of Mr. Chingaku’s paintings.

Asakusa-e and Asakusa Dolls

Chingaku’s so-called Asakusa-e were mud paintings in the Ōtsu-e style created as idle diversions during his tenure as caretaker at Awashima Hall.
He had likely modeled them after Matahei’s artistic style.
A twelve-sheet set in bags cost a mere one shu.
The characters on these bags were said to have been engraved by Machida Imasuke—then mayor of Asakusa Ward—from calligraphy by Marquis Ōkōchi.
The unpretentious brushwork—free from worldly desires and utterly devoid of affectation—delighted discerning connoisseurs, swiftly spreading the name “Asakusa-e” among enthusiasts.
Yet to amateur eyes they appeared crude and somewhat grimy, leading to careless treatment that left surviving examples exceedingly rare.
After Chingaku’s death, Shimooka Renjō perpetuated the Asakusa-e name through mud paintings; however, Renjō’s works merely imitated Chingaku’s while lacking his wit and brushwork vigor—bearing only superficial resemblance despite sharing the label.
With Renjō himself passing two or three years prior, the Asakusa-e designation has now vanished entirely.

Chingaku’s Asakusa dolls refer to mud dolls—young women figures and Seven Deities of Good Fortune resembling Fushimi ware—that he exhibited at the Crafts Pavilion during the Second Exposition after secluding himself in Mukōjima. Dozens of pieces priced at twenty-five sen each sold out completely.
The varnish applied over Fushimi doll-style coloring appeared garish and crude, making it rather unimpressive as a work by Chingaku.
However, since Awashima Chingaku’s reputation for eccentricity was resounding, anything said to be his work was considered refined—and these dolls too gained appropriate acclaim.
Even now, a few occasionally survive—two or three pieces were seen at a recent Chingaku exhibition—but they rank as the least admirable among his works.
Admittedly, the varnished parts were Chingaku's pride and were considered novel at the time.

Chingaku’s Painting Fees

Chingaku did not sell paintings to make a living.
Even when impoverished, he refused to degrade himself by selling his paintings.
Even if Asakusa-e were paintings made with mud pigments on Asakusa paper, it was clear that twelve sheets in a bag for one shu would hardly cover the cost of pigments at the time.

At that time, likely due to some fashionable prankster’s mischief, they began spreading word that Chingaku’s painting fee was no less than five rin.
Then, having heard about it from somewhere, children came bringing five rin, saying, “Uncle, please paint a picture for me!”
Finding this amusing, there were also stylish individuals who came to make requests, respectfully wrapping five rin in formal hōsho paper.
Chingaku gladly accepted these requests, not minding in the least that he lost money on pigments for the five-rin painting fee.

Of course, in those days, no one paid the exorbitant painting fees seen today.
Thus, there existed neither painters who created works with a speculative mentality nor clients who commissioned paintings with the mindset of stock investments.
While we cannot immediately attribute this difference in eras solely to a matter of refinement, the literati and painters of that time transcended profit-seeking motives far more than today’s novelists and artists.
In his later years, Chingaku had joined the ranks of painters but remained utterly free from professional painterly dispositions.

Chingaku's Works

However, while having completely shed professional painterly dispositions—with not a trace remaining of any base mentality covetous of painting fees—his creative drive conversely appears to have been weak.
Despite wielding such brushwork and erudition, his relative scarcity of large-scale works stemmed ultimately from artistic ambition being compromised by refined sensibilities.
These same refined sensibilities that elevated Chingaku to greatness simultaneously confined him to modest stature.

To determine Awashima Chingaku's position in art history through comparison with masters like Ōkyo or Tanyū proves futile.
Awashima Chingaku was no titanic figure who might rival Ōkyo or Tanyū in painterly brilliance.
Yet within Chingaku's works resides a unique line or brushstroke—one never to be discovered even were you to gather every great work by Ōkyo and Tanyū for examination.
Chingaku possessed his own domain—small yet distinctly his—a virgin territory where masters like Ōkyo and Tanyū had never once set foot.
Though this realm might be narrow and barren, it stood resolute as an independent kingdom.
Awashima Chingaku reigned indeed as sovereign of this new dominion—the Chingaku Kingdom.

As for what manner of works constitute the foremost specialty of this Chingaku Kingdom—his paintings—the recent Chingaku exhibition, having been planned by a group of enthusiasts who gathered their usual acquaintances for viewing, could not reveal the entirety of Chingaku’s paintings at this event, but one could still roughly discern his painting style.

Chingaku’s paintings were neither Ōtsu-e nor Toba-e; they were not Buson nor Taiga.
Even in small-sized paintings, they harbor the singular life of Chingaku.
Even in works resembling the Kabuki Eighteen that follow ancient precedents, Chingaku’s unique individuality naturally manifests itself.
Among his numerous works, there are some that impart a sense of discomfort, but this discomfort stems from Chingaku’s own disposition—not from adherence to convention.
The true worth of Chingaku’s paintings lies precisely in this unadorned revelation of his unique individuality—flaws and virtues laid bare without concealment.

Awashima Chingaku’s paintings were mostly modest compositions and small works, with scarcely any that could be deemed large-scale masterpieces.
To be sure, painters of that era rarely created the sort of massive exhibition-oriented canvases seen today—but Awashima Chingaku in particular, encumbered by his conception of painting as an expression of refined sensibilities, disdained labor-intensive production that might curtail his lifespan.
The kind of painstaking effort where one dedicates ten days to rendering a water element and five days to a stone—such tedium Awashima Chingaku appears to have scorned as beneath him.
Yet though Chingaku’s paintings seemed executed in uninhibited brushstrokes, they were never truly spontaneous.
To craft a single painting, Awashima Chingaku would create draft upon draft—so much so that even when examining the countless preparatory sketches and study copies found at the bottom of his storage boxes after his death, one comprehends that his ordinary meticulousness defied all norms.
While Awashima Chingaku’s paintings may give the impression of being dashed off in a single breath, this seeming impetuosity masked tremendous unseen groundwork.

The painting that Awashima Chingaku exhibited at the First Exposition was likely his lifetime masterpiece.
The very notion of Awashima Chingaku exhibiting at an exposition strikes one as peculiar, but given his innate taste for novelties, the exposition itself intrigued him more than promoting his artistic reputation.
“Since I’m a poor man who can’t afford silk,” he declared, applying ocher to the back of cambric and painting *Hell Screen* in vivid colors.
To speak of vivid colors is to reference the grimy polychromy unique to mud paintings—it was precisely in this deliberate choice to paint on cambric that Chingaku’s distinctive irony manifested itself. This painting should have been purchased by Morita Hōtan, meaning it would still reside among his family’s possessions today, but one wonders what became of it in the earthquake’s fires.
Had it been at Ike no Hata, this lifetime work of Chingaku’s would likely have burned to ashes as well.

At either the second or third exposition, he exhibited *Hashibenyō* and received the Progress Second Prize copper medal. As for where this painting is now, its owner remains unknown. The very idea of an eccentric like Awashima Chingaku exhibiting at what would now be the equivalent of [Teiten] and being awarded a medal strikes one as absurd—but there’s an amusing story behind this. Just when he had returned home after receiving the medal, Shimooka Renjō happened to come by. “I’d have preferred receiving even one ryō in gold over this thing,” said Chingaku. Then Renjō took out one yen, declaring, “In that case, I’ll buy it for one ryō,” and left with the copper medal. The whereabouts of Hashibenyō remain unknown, but the copper medal seized by this Benkei should still be at Renjō’s house—though it too was likely lost in the earthquake.

At the Ōkōchi family residence in Imado, there existed a peculiar large-scale work befitting Awashima Chingaku.
The previous head of the Ōkōchi family, Lord Terune, had been an exceptionally cultured noble who constantly kept literary scholars close at hand.
Among them all, he particularly cherished Chingaku’s serene wit and unconventional style, treating him as a friend beyond worldly conventions.
Because the wainscoting visible sideways from the guest reception room was deemed an eyesore, Chingaku adopted a craftsman-like approach—slightly extending the eaves before painting celestial beings directly onto the panels in panoramic style.
It was in such instances that Chingaku’s unique genius manifested itself.
This painting of heavenly figures was counted among his celebrated works, but alas, being on wooden paneling, it likely either suffered damage or weathered into scattered fragments.
Even had it been preserved intact, Imado’s status as an earthquake-stricken zone meant it would probably have burned in the subsequent fires.

In his later years, Awashima Chingaku took pleasure in *Tsurezuregusa* and often used the work as a subject for his paintings.
The pair of *Tsurezuregusa* collage-style folding screens painted for Count Hotta should be counted among Chingaku’s masterpieces from his later years, with what appeared to be preparatory sketches for them—two or three pieces—also being displayed at the recent Chingaku exhibition.
It is said that Yoda Gakkai Ō’s Classical Chinese biography of Chingaku had been pasted on the back of the screens, yet Gakkai’s biography of Chingaku does not appear in *Tankai*.
I imagine it must have been an unconventional text that vividly brought Chingaku’s true character to life.
However, since the Count’s residence was in Honjo—the earthquake’s epicenter—the screens themselves likely burned, and Gakkai’s lost text was also probably destroyed.

Enpuku-ji’s Chingaku Paintings

The work that could be called Awashima Chingaku’s masterpiece was the depiction of a coiling dragon on the coffered ceiling of the main hall at Enpuku-ji Temple in Ushigome.
Enpuku-ji was a Nichiren sect temple located in Yokoteramachi—where Momiji had once resided—right next to the Hon no Geijutsu-za theater.
The former head priest of this temple, Nisshō, came from the Enomoto family—Chingaku’s mother-in-law—and due to their secular familial connection, when the main hall was completed around Meiji 17–18 (1884–1885), Chingaku had been commissioned to paint the coffered ceiling of the hall.

After receiving this commission, Awashima Chingaku spent nearly every day roaming temples across Tokyo to study coiling dragons adorning their coffered ceilings.
Once he finally began painting, he reportedly secluded himself until completion, using up every last drop of the treasured Daiming ink—a legacy from Ōkyo passed down by his late teacher Toshinaga—specifically for this work.
The extent to which Awashima Chingaku poured his soul into this painting as his life’s great work defies imagination.
Fortunately, this painting remains undamaged by the earthquake’s disaster to this day, but being a work that earnestly adhered to traditional conventions, one cannot discern Awashima Chingaku’s unique artistic realm.
Yet it stands as a monumental work through which one glimpses the profound foundations of Chingaku’s art and his bold, vigorous brushwork.

It is said that paintings of kirin and phoenixes by Awashima Chingaku once adorned the earthen storehouse doors in the inner sanctum of this main hall as well—alas, they were destroyed during repairs over a decade ago.

In the alcove of Enpuku-ji’s abbot’s study hall, great waves in the Kōrin style are depicted; on the transoms of all four walls, a hundred postures of arhats amidst woods have been painted.
All of these should be counted among Awashima Chingaku’s masterpieces, but particularly in the Great Waves painting—where towering surges spill beyond pillars and frames—the uninhibited brushwork distinctive to Chingaku’s style is fully manifested.

Among the various works by Awashima Chingaku preserved at Enpuku-ji, the most noteworthy was the pair of nine-shaku sliding doors in a second-floor room of the abbot’s quarters. The composition depicted evening leisure at Shijō Riverbed, centering on a revelrous group surrounded by serving maids and dancing girls while vaguely rendering numerous clusters of cooling platforms at varying distances, imbuing the entire work with the soft, dreamlike ambiance of Kyoto’s summer night festivities. Yet tragically, when I first saw it ten years prior, it had already suffered severe damage from rainwater leaks and rodent infestation, leaving scarcely a vestige of its original appearance. At that time, I had relayed through the young novice guide that repairs should be made and the work carefully preserved to the head priest—though what became of it now remains unknown.

None of the paintings at Enpuku-ji bore signatures, and thus they were forgotten as works by Awashima Chingaku.
This very absence makes clear that Chingaku harbored no vulgar desire to trade on his free-spirited artistic reputation.
Yet even when signed, those who understood what manner of artist Awashima Chingaku was remained exceedingly few—and among those who knew his name, fewer still recognized their artistic value. Thus not only at Enpuku-ji but wherever they existed, Chingaku’s paintings were likely treated carelessly in great numbers—reduced to playthings for children and nests for mice before perishing.

However, Awashima Chingaku’s paintings should not be appreciated as mere decorative trifles like Ōtsu-e folk art or votive tablets.
Even in the small sheets of mud paintings where only a few brushstrokes were applied, an artistic poetic charm overflowed.
The depth of his erudition and the vigor of his creativity marked him as a master truly without equal in early modern times.

Twelve: Demise and the Domestic and Foreign Frenzy for Collecting Chingaku’s Works

Awashima Chingaku did not travel much. In his later years, he accompanied Viscount Ōkōchi on a leisurely journey along the Tōkaidō road with three kindred eccentrics—a Senke school tea master commonly known as Tsuiki-moku (Silent Tsuiki) among them—in a carefree trip reminiscent of Hizakurige. When they reached Tenryū, there was a river closure, and sitting in zazen on a half-collapsed bridge became Chingaku’s final eccentric act.

His final moments came on September 21, Meiji 22 (1889). When lying ill at Bun'un-an in Ushijima and about to draw his last breath, he roared with laughter and declared: "I've done all sorts of things until now, but dying will be my first new experience." He passed away peacefully at sixty-seven, as though merely falling asleep. The tombstone inscribed with “Kippō Hōshi” within Tennō-ji’s cemetery still speaks of a carefree, unconventional elegance.

During his lifetime, Awashima Chingaku was better known as an eccentric than as a painter. Though everyone recognized he created unconventional works, his Ōtsu-e-style mud paintings found little favor with most art enthusiasts of that era—those who would accept nothing less than the Tosa school’s polychrome brilliance, the Shijō school’s florid elegance, or Nanga’s dynamically splashed ink. Even his few admirers appreciated only half his eccentricity as an artistic hybrid—marveling at his strangeness like rare morning glories—rather than grasping his full genius.

Chingaku’s paintings suddenly began to be fêted and generate market value a mere ten years or so ago.
The direct cause of this market value was attributed to merchants’ anecdotes and, predictably, foreigners’ enthusiastic admiration and purchasing spree.
The Japanese have always been led by foreigners.
Not until foreigners started buying up Sharaku, Utamaro, Kunimasa, and Harunobu did the frenzy begin.
Had foreigners not praised them—or even if they had praised them but refused to pay high prices—the old nishiki-e prints would long since have become lining for screens, backing for sliding doors, or even sacks for dried goods—by now not a single sheet would remain.
At most, they would have been treasured only by impoverished enthusiasts and treated as no better than yellow-backed books.
Nowadays everyone from highbrows to lowbrows gushes over Sharaku this and Sharaku that as if claiming ownership, but until foreigners certified his worth, even Japan’s most ardent ukiyo-e lovers couldn’t have written the first character of his name.
Just so did Chingaku’s paintings suddenly gain market value after foreigners began purchasing them—and the Japanese, as if witnessing a magician’s staff turning stone into gold, widened their eyes and promptly cultivated a fever for collecting Chingaku.

Those who know tradition are inevitably bound by it.
The more deeply Japanese people understood painting, the more they became constrained by the stylistic conventions of established schools like Kano, Shijō, Southern, and Northern—appreciating the works of past masters such as Sesshū, Kōrin, Bunchō, and Yōsai through eyes clouded by tradition and rigid frameworks. Thus, even when chancing upon artistic hybrids, they seldom granted them artistic value readily.
Foreigners, being unacquainted with tradition, remained entirely unbound by convention and promptly determined artistic value based solely on their own discernment.
This common failing was not a problem limited to art alone, nor was it an issue confined solely to Japan.
All fair judgments and true critiques were always heard from foreigners unburdened by national traditions or ethnic prejudices.
In particular, that the true value of art was often determined by foreign critics was by no means limited to Japanese nishiki-e alone.

Until twenty years ago, Awashima Chingaku’s posthumous works lay bound with straw ropes in the corner of the cupboard within the painting studio of Bun’un-an, his former hermitage. Because there were so many, some had even been tossed under the eaves. According to Kangetsu’s account, he would give them to anyone who asked, but there were so many that he couldn’t possibly distribute them all—and back then, it seems there weren’t many people wanting them in the first place. However, once Chingaku’s market value emerged, they immediately descended en masse and carried everything away, leaving not even a single scrap of discarded paper at Bun’un-an. The temple caretaker of Awashima-dō—several generations removed from Chingaku’s time—reportedly heard that Chingaku’s market value had soared and, thinking at least one painting must be stuck somewhere, stripped every last corner of the temple’s wall coverings to search. In the end, not a single one was found.

However, while Chingaku’s market value did suddenly rise after Westerners began purchasing his works, it was not entirely true that there had been no Japanese who recognized the value of his paintings before that. In the Western-style painting community, elders such as Nagahara Shisui were among the earliest to appreciate Awashima Chingaku. Such figures as Kuroda Seiki—the Pope of the Western-style painting world who had passed away the previous year—and Matsukata Shōsaku, the former envoy to Siam renowned as a connoisseur, had also been collecting Awashima Chingaku’s works from early on. However, though lagging behind these aforementioned gentlemen as admirers and collectors of Awashima Chingaku, it was Tenkinkyo in Ginza that collected his works most fervently. If you mention “Tenkinkyo,” few may know it, but speak of “Tenkin,” and it refers to the proprietor of a renowned restaurant counted among Tokyo’s famous attractions—known even to country visitors clutching their red-covered guidebooks. Tenkinkyo was known as a connoisseur of refined tastes and a collector of rare books, antiquarian texts, paintings, and antiques, but in recent years he became particularly devoted to Chingaku, gathering works so voraciously—sparing no expense—that his mass buying is said to have disrupted Chingaku’s market value, causing it to skyrocket abruptly; in the blink of an eye, he amassed over a hundred and several dozen pieces. Not only did Tenkinkyo acquire works in quantity, but he also obtained superior pieces; he had plans to eventually publish a collected art volume of the Chingaku paintings he had gathered. However, before this plan could be realized—alas—this unparalleled collection was reduced to nothingness in the Great Earthquake. The painted tanzaku by Awashima Chingaku that Tenkinkyo had copied and distributed as summer greetings to acquaintances last year were but fragmentary mementos of his Chingaku collection—rescued with difficulty from the conflagration.

But even though Awashima Chingaku’s finest collection had been reduced to nothingness, his posthumous works still lay scattered here and there. Many of his masterpieces had been stored in the downtown districts, so one might presume most perished in the earthquake fires—yet his unique artistic vision found fuller expression not in grand compositions but rather in modestly scaled works. Should another exhibition be held, unexpected masterpieces might yet emerge from some forgotten corner. Moreover, given that numerous pieces appear to have been sold abroad at exorbitant prices, it was not entirely impossible that associates of Kuruto and Zukko might publish an illustrated chronicle of Chingaku featuring reproductions of masterpieces scarcely known in Japan—thereby sending tremors through Europe’s art circles. “My paintings’ll fetch their true worth once I’m dead,” Awashima Chingaku had once boasted, a self-satisfied smile lurking beneath his mossy beard as if to jeer, “Go on, take a good look! All this fuss over Impressionists and Expressionists putting on airs—why, I’d mastered what Gogh and Cézanne were fumbling at ages ago!”

(Revised and supplemented in March, Taishō 14 [1925])