Pathway to Japanese Literature

Modern Calligraphy Critique

Author: Kitaoji Rosanjin

Preface

A person’s value, strictly speaking, is determined only after the coffin is closed.
Therefore, if one is to criticize a person, it cannot be said to be complete unless done after their coffin is closed.
Particularly while we remain in this world together, we tend to become ensnared by futile emotions and find it difficult to attain proper understanding.
The fact that works of genius grow more luminous with time—that those scarcely noticed during their creators’ lifetimes gradually gain recognition in later years, ultimately attaining unshakable value and being enshrined in supreme status—is primarily due to this reason.

However, the value of a work is already inherent from the moment of its creation—it is not something appended afterward.
Even if a masterpiece’s value comes to be recognized for the first time in later generations, that value has been inherent from the beginning—and its lack of recognition stems not from absence of worth but from absence of those capable of perceiving it.
Even those who vaguely grasp its value during their lifetimes are often misled by the colored lenses of human emotion.

In that sense, to fully critique the works of contemporary figures is exceedingly difficult.
But for those with discerning eyes, this would not be an impossible task.
However, many people do not do this.
When it comes to calligraphy, people discuss at length the works of those from the past who have already received established evaluations, but there are few who offer clear and direct critiques of modern calligraphy.
Because they are clever, they likely refrain from undertaking work that would risk exposing their own ignorance.

The fact that I attempt to do this, however, is not solely due to a childish impulse to dare undertake what others avoid. Through this, I hope it may serve as some aid in cultivating the ability to appreciate calligraphy.

Now, I must preface this by stating that all the calligraphic works I gather here belong to the category of skilled calligraphy—in other words, they are exclusively contemporary first-rate works. Therefore, I shall refrain from offering exaggerated praise, but I wish you to understand that by merely selecting them for discussion here, each is an outstanding work of calligraphy. I do not intend to consider inferior works from the outset. Moreover, being who I am, I select individuals who catch my fancy at various moments—there’s no particular order to it. Moreover, even works by those already deceased—when they seem broadly classifiable as modern—I intend to freely incorporate and critique them.

Tōyama Mitsuru’s Calligraphy

Since this preface had grown overly long, I commenced without further delay.
First was Mr. Tōyama Mitsuru’s calligraphy.
“As Light as Clouds—Tōyama Mitsuru” was written.
As light as clouds… these were remarkably fine characters.
I often came across Mr. Tōyama’s characters but sometimes saw dubious ones.
Forgeries were numerous.
This was unmistakably genuine.
It stood magnificent.

But when one casually surveyed the entire work, I believed the first thing anyone with even modest understanding would notice was the peculiarity of the “cloud” character.
The “cloud” somehow stood out—not in a positive sense, but rather incongruously.
Having written “As Light As” fluidly up to that point, he now wrote “Cloud” with fresh resolve—as if declaring “Now comes the ‘Cloud’ character!”
Because there was a shift in focus at this juncture, the “cloud” did not harmonize with “as light as.”
It gave the impression of separately written characters pasted together.
This was something even beginners likely perceived.

Now then, why did this happen? I surmise that Mr. Tōyama had developed an interest in this particular abbreviated form and shape of "cloud," having practiced it repeatedly over time.
When writing "Cloud" in a calmly simplified manner that anyone could recognize, he likely could have applied at least the same intensity of focus seen in "As Light As."
Yet precisely because of his fascination with this abbreviation technique and form, he became constrained by stylistic affectation, causing a fundamental shift in his creative approach.
This undoubtedly formed the impetus for what I term his calligraphic performativity.
From this perspective, when executing the "Cloud" character, a distinct mental state emerged—divergent from the fluid mindset maintained while writing "As Light As."
In essence, an unchecked preoccupation—*Ah, now comes that character with its distinctive cursive flair!*—must have subconsciously taken root, rendering this glyph peculiarly discordant within the overall composition.

Since it was a character he had grown accustomed to writing with an inherent interest in form, the brush had been deftly wielded, but it lacked vitality.
"The 'As Light As' brimmed with vigor while 'Cloud' lacked intensity precisely for this reason."
This was also why there was an artificially tacked-on discordant feeling.
Now then, having finished writing "As Light as Clouds" in any case, Mr. Tōyama appeared to have breathed a sigh of relief there.
After that, he signed his name calmly without any particular resolve.
Thus, among the entire work, the characters “Tōyama Mitsuru” were rendered most naturally and skillfully.
Therefore, within this piece, the final signature stood out even more distinctly, shining brilliantly with artistic merit.

All of this was, of course, my attempt at a psychological dissection—a hypothetical "this might have been how it was"—but judged by the execution of the characters, I could not help but arrive at this conclusion. If this calligraphy had been written from beginning to end in the same manner as this signature, one could say it would have been truly splendid. Yet regrettably, it was divided into three parts. Had the character for "cloud" been written with the same heat and power as "As Light As," even that would have been preferable.

To put it another way，this meant that even Mr．Tōyama was at times divided in spirit—or，to borrow a slightly ironic expression，one could say that when he took up the brush，he overreached．

If we next examined the details somewhat closely，Mr．Tōyama’s calligraphy was not practiced writing．
From a technical standpoint as calligraphy，there were shortcomings．
However，true to his character，there were indeed elements of excellence．
For instance，the leading line—namely，the vertical stroke drawn with splashed ink in the character “light”—truly showcased Mr．Tōyama’s strengths．
It was imbued with power and possessed restrained depth．
It had a certain presence．
However，the next one—the second vertical line （a hook-like curve with an intermediate step midway）—shared nearly identical qualities．
Thus，within the single character “light，” these two lines already imparted a sense of duplication．
However，even in the character “如，”the same line reappeared．
With three lines of identical tone overlapping in this manner，they imparted a sense of redundancy，creating an inexplicable ponderousness．
Of course，this was not a major issue，but from the perspective of calligraphic technique，it could hardly be called proficient．
In conclusion，within this work，the most skillfully executed and artistically radiant element was the signature characters “Tōyama Mitsuru．”
From this point onward，proceeding in this manner，I hoped he would continue until the three-character title above achieved skillful execution．
（Showa Year 10 （1935））

Professor Masaki Naohiko’s Calligraphy

Calligraphy, so to speak, should be learned in the manner of master calligraphers—yet that very calligraphy must avoid descending into what is disparaged as the "calligrapher’s mannerism."
That is the essential secret of practice.
However, those who study calligraphy—a hundred out of a hundred—invariably end up succumbing to calligrapher’s mannerisms.
Indeed, this has become an ironclad rule of our times.

The question arises: Why exactly is calligrapher’s mannerism problematic? The assertion that "calligrapher’s style" is undesirable simply means it fixates solely on superficial technical prowess while lacking substantive value.
When technique takes precedence, they become disproportionately interested in technical matters—for instance, what style of horizontal line is best, what kind of brush flick is most striking, whether to apply pressure or not, thickness versus thinness—until these decorative technical contrivances come to be regarded as the most critical matter.
This is an unavoidable common pitfall that all practitioners encounter on the path of calligraphy practice.

The gradual descent into unorthodoxy from such technical fixation ultimately stemmed from the writer’s lack of innate talent and insufficient discernment—or, more precisely, it arose from the naive obtuseness of those who failed to grasp that calligraphy’s vitality and value lay fundamentally beyond technique.

If one were to consider that what constituted the life of calligraphy was largely technique, with mere fragments being content, then people like Nukina would have had to be regarded as Japan’s unparalleled skilled calligraphers and treasured above all others.
If we took an example from the Meiji era, even now, the calligraphy of Venerable Gochiku—still a subject of debate—would have had to be called truly remarkable skilled calligraphy. To be sure, compared to Meikaku or Iwaya Ichiroku, Gochiku’s work transcended typical calligrapher affectations, displaying both refinement and elevated rhythm; yet fundamentally, like Meikaku and Ichiroku, it remained bound by calligrapher’s mannerism, its content impoverished.
That is to say, even if something appeared transcendent in form, since this stemmed purely from brush-tip technique, they were ultimately nothing more than artisan technical flair. Though posturing as transcendent, they in fact achieved no transcendence at all.
Because of this, their content was impoverished, and it was only natural that their vitality as calligraphy had withered.

Lately, among the calligraphic works by monks that people praised to high heaven—Jakugon being a prime example—these pieces too remained mired in technical preoccupations, ultimately succumbing to calligrapher’s mannerism.
The impoverishment of content could not be concealed before discerning eyes.
At first glance, the brushwork was refined and the characters quite cleverly rendered to engaging effect—alas, their foundation had lapsed into calligrapher’s mannerism, rendering them difficult to revere.
In contrast, when we come to Ryōkan, here at last we found form executed superbly—maintaining a lofty classical style, its content so richly substantive that Jakugon and other modern monks bore no comparison; this was truly transcendent skilled calligraphy.
Truly, the venerated monk Ryōkan approached calligraphy with his entire being.

What strikes one as remarkable here is that there existed in the Meiji era a man who studied calligraphy in the calligrapher’s manner yet never succumbed to its mannerisms—who stood beyond its bounds and produced calligraphy of genuine form.
That man was none other than Count Soejima Taneomi.
Throughout the enlightened Meiji reign, Count Soejima wrote works of skilled calligraphy so decisively excellent as to admit no equal.
This had to be considered exceptional by any measure.
One might rightly say it was precisely because he was an exceptional man.

To summarize with a general admonition: we must recognize that heedlessly practicing calligraphy proves perilous.
For in studying it, one inevitably acquires technique—adopting styles ill-suited to their disposition or status—and therein arises artificial craftsmanship.
Ordinary souls, harboring such craftsmanship within, find themselves overwhelmed by it and unable to restrain it.
They cannot forsake technique’s allure.
Thus does calligraphy inevitably fail to attain its genuine form.

What then constitutes authentic form? It means resolving to become a person of character who writes calligraphy by minimizing artifice—or rather, eliminating it altogether.
The subtle essence of skilled calligraphy must permeate one’s very marrow—reaching a realm where even clumsy writing becomes true calligraphy.
Yet most who study this art succumb to artificial craftsmanship—mastering brush techniques while petty calculations about “tilting the tip this way or that” dominate their minds.
Thus what emerges is not skilled calligraphy but mere counterfeit disguised beneath its veneer.
To put it harshly, they produce nothing but hollow shells of calligraphy—laborious efforts more pitiable than praiseworthy.

In my attempt to critique Professor Masaki’s calligraphy, I unwittingly delivered an extended digression from the outset. With these considerations firmly in mind, I now invite you to examine the work presented above.

“Jūsanmatsudō” refers to Professor Masaki Naohiko.
Upon viewing this piece, one recognizes that he has indeed studied calligrapher-style practice works.
Having never specifically inquired about his stylistic influences, I remain ignorant of his particular models; yet it is evident he pursued nothing radically unconventional.
Traces of diverse calligraphic studies can nevertheless be discerned.
He appears to have surveyed a comprehensive array of stone rubbings.
The work evokes the Great Master’s *Fūshinjō*, while bearing vestiges of Zhao Mengfu, Zhiyong, and Dong Qichang.
Yet despite these palpable imprints of practiced technique, the piece radiates a refined freedom and boldness beyond the mimicry of mere calligraphers.
He writes in identical styles at identical points as others—yet here it has become unmistakably his own.

This is precisely because they study calligraphy without being ensnared by the pitfalls of practice and ultimately transcend mere technical training; when one advances to that stage, their own distinctive handwriting naturally emerges.
They do the same things as others yet make them their own—a principle that applies equally to gidayū recitation (a traditional narrative style).
When one achieves transcendence from technical training, even when singing the same song in the same manner as others, it becomes entirely their own—despite no particular alteration, possessing an exquisite quality unique to them.
That is precisely its vitality and substance.

As previously mentioned, Professor Masaki’s calligraphy retained clear traces of practice.
Generally speaking, calligraphy preserving such evident vestiges of training would be nearly unbearable to behold.
Yet this work displayed an authentically free, crisp austerity of taste precisely because Professor Masaki’s method adhered to artifice from start to finish while simultaneously transcending it.
The subtle truth of maintaining balance between attachment and detachment in practice likely constituted this work’s most distinguishing feature.

Writing characters so ordinary in form that they verge on being too commonplace—yet achieving refinement, crispness, absence of vulgarity, not a trace of hesitation, and characters that fit into a dignified style—this fact surely attested that the writer had attained considerable mastery.

This calligraphy, as clarified in the preceding explanation, was ultimately a realm attained through practice.
To condense it plainly: while it stemmed from innate talent and human character, I particularly wished to emphasize that this realm had been attained through honest practice. For this pointed to the necessity that practitioners of calligraphy must strive to reach precisely this state of mastery.
Calligraphy practice had recently become extremely popular.
However, while none of these many practitioners could write with such ease, this very fact increasingly elevated the value of this work—here, I wished to clearly demonstrate that it served as an excellent guidepost.
When I said things like “Write calligraphy through your character” or “Do not assume you can achieve it with the brush alone,” this was precisely what I meant.
The prevalence of calligraphy practice was not necessarily a bad trend.
But to believe that one could produce skilled calligraphy through technique-focused practice alone and strive accordingly was nothing less than a monumental failure of discernment evident in modern calligraphy circles.

Be that as it may, this calligraphy of Professor Masaki does not represent a realm unattainable through practice. It is calligraphy achievable through resolve alone. That one studies calligraphy as self-cultivation and aspires to ultimately reach this level—this can hardly be considered my personal sentiment alone.

This work was written by the Professor impromptu at the request of those around him during his stay at Yamanochō Hot Springs; deeming it a rare example of pleasing characters in recent times, I dared to attempt this presumptuous critique.

Studying it strictly as self-cultivation, deliberately avoiding haste, proceeding at an ordinary pace without contorting the body or succumbing to self-will—it is in this realm where form and spirit converge that the exquisite quality of this work resides.
I must add a word on how Professor’s philosophy of tea ceremony—given his deep engagement with Japanese tea practice—had benefited him and led him there.
(Showa Year 10 [1935])

Duke Tokugawa Iesato’s Untalented Calligraphy

There was a time when I was engaged in various casual conversations with the elderly wife of a certain Privy Councilor.
When our conversation happened to turn to calligraphy and the works of various modern masters came up as topics, the elderly woman suddenly lowered her voice and remarked—

“Mr. Tokugawa is truly pitiable—his hand is so poor… If only his calligraphy were skilled, it would be utterly impeccable, but for some reason, his hand is unusually bad.”
“He probably has the poorest hand among the nobility.”
“That alone must be the one flaw in an otherwise perfect gem, I suppose.”

she said with a tone of genuine pity.
Even I was somewhat taken aback by this.
That anyone—let alone someone daring to call poor the calligraphy of Duke Tokugawa Iesato, whom I revere above all modern masters of skilled brushwork, even extending to pitying it—left me dumbstruck by such ignorance: unsure whether to seethe with indignation or burst into derisive laughter, my words failed me entirely.

However, this was not necessarily a prejudice limited solely to the elderly wife of the Privy Councilor.
The reason being, another such incident occurred afterward.
This time, the other party consisted not of some reclusive woman but two presidents of a major Tokyo insurance company.
As we became absorbed in discussing hobbies and the conversation turned to calligraphy, one of them asked me, “By the way, who would you say is today’s most skilled calligrapher?”
“Well, ‘skilled’ can mean many things,” I casually replied, voicing my longstanding conviction, “but I’d say Duke Tokugawa Iesato stands foremost in skilled calligraphy.”
At this, they wore expressions of someone hearing an utterly unexpected reply, and both gentlemen remained thoroughly unconvinced.
“That sort of calligraphy isn’t even worth considering.
To call that the pinnacle of modern skilled calligraphy—you must be joking,” they said in a tone that made me doubt the sincerity of my own response.
Thereafter, I steeled myself and exhaustively explained how Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy exemplified true mastery—yet ultimately failed to persuade them. Not only did my lengthy arguments prove futile, but matters reached the point where they dismissed my perspective with remarks like “Your judgment can’t be trusted,” thereby casting doubt on my own credibility.

Having tasted such experiences not once but twice regarding Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy, I could not help but conclude that there must be surprisingly many people of this caliber in the world.
When viewed through this lens, Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy proves too transcendent in tone and elegance to gain recognition from the secular world.
To be acknowledged as skilled calligraphy by the general populace, it lacks what might be termed a calligrapher’s technical flair—a deficiency arising from His Lordship’s very clumsiness and lack of talent disregarding technique.
Such qualities undeniably exist.

In that regard, for example, everyone seems to consider Mr. Inukai’s calligraphy skilled.
That is to say, it is skilled to a degree comprehensible to anyone, so all readily accept it.
Yet when it comes to Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy, one cannot claim it is understandable to all.
Therefore, to those who fail to comprehend it, it conversely appears poor by contrast.

This relationship mirrors exactly how those lacking an eye for antiques perceive them: appearing merely dingy, worn-out, and unsightly—utterly incapable of acknowledging their true beauty.

Yet as one’s discernment gradually sharpens, beauty emerges from what was deemed unsightly, while flaws become visible within modern notions of beauty; though paintings reveal their true worth in time, initially nine out of ten people fail to grasp ancient calligraphic works or Nara-period Buddhist art.

In precisely that sense, Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy stands among those works of skilled brushwork whose virtues elude superficial observation.

To draw a theatrical parallel: much like how the late Danjūrō’s performances—rich in psychological depth yet sparing in physical movement—failed to captivate contemporary audiences, so too does this calligraphy defy immediate appreciation.
Today Gahō’s paintings command princely sums, yet when first shown at Japan’s inaugural exposition they were deemed unworthy of selection—later rejected from early art exhibitions as well.
This occurred because judges of that era lacked comprehension of Gahō’s art.
Consider too Harusada’s *Fallen Leaves*—now celebrated precisely because his paintings revealed genius from their inception. Yet even he endured multiple rejections during his obscure youth. Such examples would overflow any ledger.
In essence: immaturity cannot grasp it.

At first glance it could not be comprehended, but when examined through the long lens of time, it would ultimately become clear. In due course, worthy works would be recognized while inferior ones were winnowed away. Yet initially, to the vulgar eye, anything superficially clever appeared skilled regardless of its substance.

Through these analogies one might generally surmise what position Duke Tokugawa's calligraphy occupies—though when we call his work "skilled," as noted earlier, this does not signify technical superiority. It demands evaluation as good calligraphy, distinguished calligraphy, calligraphy of unforced lines, calligraphy imbued with presence, calligraphy born from the heart; in this sense, it may indeed be termed a rare specimen of skilled calligraphy in modern times.

Many people marvel at those who skillfully copy Ki no Tsurayuki’s kana or are impressed by those adept at imitating Chinese calligraphy from stone inscriptions and model books.
Many such people—indeed most of them—equate manual dexterity with skill, but calligraphy has never had its value determined solely by such perspectives since ancient times.
Ultimately, it is precisely because one evaluates calligraphy based on such artistic criteria as fundamental—viewing it primarily through content-driven aspects like unforced lines, dignity imbued with presence, power, and refined elegance—that calligraphy has come to be regarded as both fine art and art in its own right.

Therefore, even if technically poor, there are very many instances where it constitutes good calligraphy—that is, skilled calligraphy. Especially among the calligraphy of people involved in the Japanese tea ceremony, there are many such instances.

For example, the calligraphy of the monk Ikkyū appears as a mad, violent work akin to brandishing an unsheathed sword, yet it commands increasing reverence today because its content possesses artistic resolve.

While Rikyū possessed extraordinary power yet wrote common-sense calligraphy—posing no particular issue—Genpaku’s work at first glance appears dreadfully poor, so much so that one might mistake it for inept brushwork. But to discerning eyes, his calligraphy contains rare delicacies from mountain and sea within its content, a truth that strikes the heart with an indescribable, irresistible flavor. It cannot be called poor, nor can it be called skilled. If truth and authenticity exist between heaven and earth, then this is calligraphy that embodies truth itself. It is unmistakably Genpaku’s own calligraphy. In other words, it can be said to be a splendid, creative work of calligraphy that embodies his very character.

For those like Enshū and Sōwa—whose works excel technically while remaining beautiful—these are unquestionably deemed skilled by anyone and can effortlessly pass as masterful calligraphy among the general public. But Genpaku, compared to them, becomes an anomaly among anomalies; one cannot measure him by conventional standards. Yet his work possesses a power that pierces deep into the human psyche, splendidly embodying the very essence of skilled calligraphy. Therein lies art that could only be Genpaku’s.

Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy lacked Genpaku’s depth and gravitas, yet it belonged to the same class of masterful brushwork. Of course, he himself likely did not consider it skilled—though neither, I imagine, did he deem it poor—and it was precisely this indifference to such judgments in his writing that reflected the character befitting the Sixteenth Lord. Insensitive and incapable of petty craftsmanship, audacious in a way that exerted strong pressure—precisely because of this, it achieved masterful brushwork with a presence unshackled by trivialities.

Duke Tokugawa likely did not practice much.
That said—even if he did not—given his privileged upbringing, he must have at least undergone what would be considered ordinary practice during his childhood.
In the characters from his youth, one could observe considerable technical skill.
But even so, he was never bound by technique, writing characters with a carefree nonchalance—unfettered as if blown by the wind—that bore a cool composure.

Was this what one might call the presence of the Sixteenth Lord? It must have been the power of innate talent born from lineage—the very substance of what we term family status and bloodline.
The Duke’s characters appeared vacant and utterly unforced in their obtuseness—an obtuseness that, by its very nature, remained unfettered by trivial fascinations with brush technique or stylistic flourishes, seeming instead to have established his name through natural merits alone.

Precisely because of this, its merits remained invisible to ordinary eyes that judged calligraphy solely by brush technique and script styles.
This was precisely why one might see phenomena like the wife of a Privy Councilor lamenting that her handiwork was poor or two presidents of major companies—both connoisseurs—united in their dismissal.
But here lay the curious thing: when placed alongside other so-called secular skilled calligraphies, the power of its content became self-evident.
Afterward, when I showed these two presidents other works by modern notables for comparison and discussed them, they gradually came to understand; by now, even these presidents had come to clearly recognize the excellence of Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy.

However, in Duke Tokugawa’s calligraphy—how should I put it—one cannot find that certain strand of artistic refinement born from diligent effort. This was likely because Duke Tokugawa fundamentally lacked the aesthetic sensibility rooted in artistic dilettantism or antiquarian pursuits. Truly, he was a man so devoid of artistic taste that one might rightly call him utterly lacking in aesthetic sense. His Lordship’s pastimes appeared confined to sumo and Noh recitation. This aspect formed a profound regret when evaluating his calligraphy—for had he possessed even a modicum of artistic refinement, one cannot help but imagine how truly exceptional this work might have become as skilled calligraphy. He might have rivaled Genpaku; he might have matched Ike no Taiga.

That being said, in those days contemporary skilled calligraphy had become so impoverished that Duke Tokugawa’s work ranked foremost among masterful brushwork.
Therefore this was not because Duke Tokugawa was great, but rather because his innate disposition proved effective.
Therefore it was not something to be revered as the fruit of enlightenment gained through diligent study in calligraphy.
Therefore as Duke Tokugawa he had no grounds to boast of this skilled calligraphy—yet those who viewed it from without had to affirm that this work must necessarily be affirmed as skilled calligraphy in artistic terms; to deny this would mark one as lacking understanding of calligraphy.

Well, there would likely come an occasion when we examined Prince Saionji’s calligraphy; at that time, I intended to reference the Duke’s work once more and provide a more concrete analysis. Though this discussion had ended somewhat abstractly, I wanted you to re-examine the Duke’s calligraphy after first keeping the above arguments in mind.

(Showa Year 11)

The Calligraphy of Don’ō Masuda Takaaki

The life of a tea master is, by all accounts, an aesthetic one.
It could be called a life of aesthetic appreciation, or perhaps termed a life devoted to the appreciation of antique art.
They may fuss over protocols and such, but that very etiquette can be said to arise from a heart that respects antique art and cherishes an aesthetic life.
In any case, since ancient times, tea masters' concern for beauty has been profoundly deep and intimately close, pervading every aspect of their clothing, food, and shelter.
And that is precisely the value of tea masters—it is there that lies the reason we respect them.
Therefore, if a tea master does not understand art, I do not hesitate to declare that by that fact alone, they already lack the qualifications of a tea master.

Needless to say, all great art and fine art are grounded in human sincerity.
Therefore, when tea masters write calligraphy—what kind of works would they create? What calligraphy would be fitting of a tea master’s stature? To put it simply, it must be calligraphy with fully realized artistic value.
It must, of course, possess elements of elegant refinement and classical charm.
A pretentious work becomes false and is therefore undesirable.
A superficial work lacks presence and is therefore also undesirable.
If a work is alluring, its showiness makes it unsuitable for tea [ceremony aesthetics].
Even if subdued qualities are considered good, if they lack vitality and become unsightly, this too is undesirable.

That being said, calligraphy that is technically skilled yet transparently calculated is undesirable.
Bad calligraphy naturally does not align with a tea master’s aspirations.
But if one were to list them in this manner, there would still be countless criticisms to enumerate regarding tea masters’ calligraphy.
So then, when considering what kind of characters one must write to meet the standard as a tea master, it proves far from straightforward.
This, so to speak, is where the value of tea ceremony resides—precisely in that no matter how much one trains, one cannot fully master it. Herein lies its depth and worth.

But to put this simply: since tea masters' calligraphy must be measured against the tea ceremony's guiding principles of harmony, respect, purity and tranquility, it must be composed in a tranquil manner. Moreover,calligraphy that is alluringly showy will not do.
Calligraphy that appears skillfully crafted to resemble that of a wise scholar will not do for tea.
Calligraphy that appears skilled through superficial practice alone is even more unacceptable.
If it is utterly unskilled，it naturally does not even qualify as a problem.

To put it this way：being skilled will not do，nor will being unskilled.
But being half-hearted will not do.
Then what should be done?
Since it comes to this—though we have persistently maintained that calligraphy is difficult—merely repeating this will not bring matters to a conclusion，so let us provisionally attempt to settle the issue and see...

In other words, it must be work that at first glance appears utterly inept, yet upon careful savoring and scrutiny reveals itself to be not merely competent but truly splendid calligraphy—possessing a marvelous depth of character. It must not be merely skilled yet unskilled.

Now then, in that sense, the tea master’s calligraphy that meets those criteria would indeed be the aforementioned Genpaku’s work. Rikyū and others certainly attained mastery, but I still find their excessive skill somewhat troubling. When we come to Enshū and Sōwa, their works are of course quite skilled—moreover, this skill is remarkably polished. That is to say, theirs is a masterful artistry where glimpses of unskilled elements can be seen within the skilled execution.

In other words, their value lies in possessing brilliant, genius-level brush mastery while simultaneously blending unskilled elements into their skilled execution—this constitutes their very essence. One might say it is skilled calligraphy that transcends rules; though Lord Fumai’s brushwork may be weak, it is precisely this quality that constitutes their very essence. However, Lord Fumai did not possess the dignity and inner strength seen in Enshū or Sōwa. Yet given that he was someone who had devoted himself so thoroughly to tea, Lord Fumai produced the most excellent calligraphy when compared to Confucian scholars of his time.

Now then, how does the calligraphy of modern tea masters fare? We often speak highly of people of old, but when it comes to modern times, the situation is pitiful—there are exceedingly few who can truly be called tea masters.

The late Marquis Inoue stood among the better examples; his calligraphy compelled one to nod in acknowledgment of its fitting mastery. Duke Itō’s works were indeed skilled—excessively so, lacking tea sensibility—yet what troubled me was how he himself paraded that very skillfulness. Even when measured against vulgar writings, Marquis Inoue’s calligraphy retained a beauty that defied simplistic categorization as mere vulgarity.

The calligraphy of the late Venerable Baba Eiichi proved fiercely rugged—a testament to his stalwart character alone—yet as befitted one versed in tea practice, it maintained a tasteful beauty worthy of a tea master. That such aesthetic merit could emerge from a businessman’s brushwork owed its existence, ultimately, to tea’s transformative influence.

Now then, considering the Senke school—the head family of tea—they may hold that position, but whether due to a lack of geniuses arising or because they turned tea ceremony instruction into a business, their so-called mercantile mentality resulted in the exquisite beauty and virtues of tea being utterly unembraced.
I wouldn’t say it entirely lacks the beauty of tea, but the current state of affairs makes it somewhat difficult to accept these as works by the head family’s tea masters.

Gen’ensai, who made his name in the early Meiji era, was quite adept and is perceived as a person of substance who left behind vigorous works; yet even so, he created calligraphy so vulgar it strains belief that it came from the head family of tea ceremony.
Had he not been born into a tea family, he would have produced even more vulgar calligraphy.
In this regard, I must declare him no tea master.
It clings excessively to superfluous rigor, showing not a vestige of tea ceremony's essential spirit of harmony.
Utterly devoid of refinement, this cannot be said to represent genuine study of tea aesthetics.
At minimum, we must conclude he never grasped what ancient tea practice sought to enlighten.

When considered against Gen’ensai and his ilk, Masuda Don’ō’s calligraphy could be said to possess far greater tea sensibility and technical skill—a truly accomplished work.

Yet it might be noted that this very technical proficiency presented a slight excess.
Mr. Masuda was, as all recognized, one of the foremost tea masters of his day.
When evaluated as such a preeminent tea master, how did Mr. Masuda’s current calligraphy measure?
Had this work indeed been created when Mr. Masuda was around forty years of age, he would have had remarkable cause for pride.
But Mr. Masuda was already an octogenarian.
For calligraphy produced past eighty years of age, it struck one as somewhat too alluring, too polished, too clever by half.

Today's Mr. Masuda stands as one of the world's foremost tea masters.
Were I to express my wish regarding his current calligraphy, I would desire greater artlessness.
At minimum, I should hope he might cultivate deliberate simplicity.
Yet regrettably, he still appears bent on refining his technical mastery further.

Needless to say at this point, calligraphy is not valued solely for its appearance.
All the more so, tea masters’ calligraphy must place weight not on appearance but on spirit alone—this is precisely what constitutes the tea ceremony.

That being said, if we ask who else among today’s tea masters writes characters as skillfully as Mr. Masuda, there are none.
Therefore, in that sense, Mr. Masuda’s calligraphy stands as an exceptionally outstanding example rarely seen today.
What comes to mind when viewing this work is that had Mr. Masuda not practiced tea, one can imagine he would have written merely skillful yet vulgar characters like so many ordinary calligraphers.
This is where years of tea ceremony practice and aesthetic refinement honed his artistic sensibilities, allowing his brush to move freely across the page and naturally imbue his calligraphy with a distinctive elegance and beauty.
In this respect, this work deserves praise as a rarity in the present day.

Mr. Masuda maintained health at over eighty years of age that surpassed that of a robust young man.
He remained a tea master with potential yet to unfold.
Those who wished for him—having come to a sudden realization—to strive for an unskilled approach from tomorrow onward surely shared this desire beyond my solitary hope.

If Don’ō stood at a crossroads between pursuing skilled or unskilled calligraphy to create valuable works, now was precisely the season when he must choose the unskilled path regardless of others' opinions.
This would ensure Mr. Masuda’s future artistic growth while nourishing his creative well-being.

However, these matters are rooted in one’s innate character and governed by their moral constitution; thus, we cannot demand sudden transformation. Yet even so: strive for elegance, and elegance will grow; strive for simplicity, and simplicity will take root—with such resolve alone, even one’s very character may undergo profound change.

While numerous technical details regarding Mr. Masuda’s calligraphy still remained to be discussed in depth, I reserved such commentary for future occasions when critiquing other tea masters—where comparative analysis might prove fruitful—and limited myself here to addressing the fundamental issues outlined above.

(Showa 11 [1936])

The Calligraphy of Mr. Baba Eiichi

Two or three weeks prior to Mr. Baba’s appointment as minister, I visited Branch Manager Tanabe Katamaru—whose passion for ceramics was well-known—at Osaka’s Kangyō Bank. While waiting briefly in the reception room, my eyes happened to fall upon an unusually large advertising matchbox on the tabletop, its dimensions roughly three sun by two sun. The label’s allure struck me with peculiar intensity.
The label’s design featured a white fan-shaped cutout on its base paper, within which the calligraphy of "Faith as the Root of All Things" shone vividly with glistening ink strokes, despite its small imprint.

At the very moment I instinctively recognized it as masterful calligraphy, I scrutinized the sesame seed-sized seal to verify its creator.
Then, it turned out to be the calligraphy of Mr. Baba Eiichi.

This was the first time I had seen Mr. Baba Eiichi’s calligraphy.
Because of this, I truly felt surprised.
That such skilled calligraphy had not yet been clamorously celebrated in society—I couldn't help but wonder why this was the case.
At that very moment, Tanabe pushed open the door and appeared, so I blurted out, “Your president writes with such skill... This was my first time seeing it, but I’m truly impressed.”
Tanabe had clearly not realized that Mr. Baba’s skilled calligraphy had been discovered from the matchbox label, and now, unable to fathom where I had encountered the president’s work, he floundered in his attempt to respond.

Thereupon, I explained to Mr. Tanabe that Mr. Baba’s calligraphy was splendid skilled calligraphy rarely seen in modern times—skilled calligraphy that clearly expressed the demeanor of a sincere person of character, skilled calligraphy that manifested an immensely strong conviction with latent power—and finally added that this was ministerial-grade calligraphy of the highest order.

Even Mr. Tanabe looked somewhat dumbfounded as he said, “You’re saying that…? So our president’s calligraphy is that skilled? I had no idea.”
“I really need to reassess things,” he said, scratching his head.
“Well, in any case,” the conversation progressed with me requesting to obtain Mr. Baba’s calligraphy for inclusion in this modern skilled calligraphy critique, and several days later, what we acquired were the two pieces shown here: “Sincerity from Start to Finish” and “Faith as the Foundation of All Matters.”

Even so, regarding my foresight in having clearly graded him as ministerial material, I’d like someone to say something—even flattery would do.

(Showa 11 [1936])

The Calligraphy of Nezu Seizan-o

Mr. Nezu was already a man of refined taste and an art lover from his youth... This refers to an incident over forty years ago when someone reportedly saw him searching for stones in Kyoto's Kamo River.
It is well known that from around the age of thirty, he began avidly collecting calligraphic works, paintings, and antiques.
From his forties onward, Mr. Nezu became devoted to the tea ceremony, learned to wield the tea whisk, and has continued this practice until now, rising to be recognized as one of today's foremost tea masters. At seventy-seven years old, this hale and hearty gentleman maintaining a life of connoisseurship is no ordinary aesthetic enthusiast.

No one could imagine how many tens of millions of yen worth of antique art pieces Mr. Nezu had collected over the years, but it was certain they far surpassed mere millions.

When considering how he had spent tens of millions throughout his lifetime purchasing these artworks—indulging his tastes while handling each piece with care—one might well view Mr. Nezu as a man thoroughly marinated in antique art, like a pickle preserved in its brine.

At this stage, humans too could not help but become antique art themselves—transformed into works of art.

Human actions and human works cannot help but reflect their creator.

Since a work is nothing but a reflection of its creator's character, the evident presence of extraordinary "beauty" in Mr. Nezu's calligraphy should come as no surprise—it is an entirely natural conclusion.

True skilled calligraphy has always inherently contained both the "beauty" of natural beauty and the beauty of art.
This single fact remains decisive.
It has been an immutable truth since antiquity that works deficient in artistic beauty inevitably prove equally deficient in appreciation value.
Art cannot be judged through logic or circumstance.
Consider as proof the calligraphy of Confucian scholars: though technically skilled and historically celebrated, these works command remarkably low appreciation and modest market prices precisely because they lack substantial artistic beauty—they merely trade on historical reputation and nothing more.

When examining calligraphy through brush technique or refinement skill—or when assessing only the technical form of ancient skilled works—calligraphic pieces rivaling Seizan-o’s, nay even surpassing his in dexterous form, are by no means scarce. Yet this very latent power, this unshakable content—simple yet resolute—unfettered by conventional notions of studying skilled brushwork, neither scorning lack of technique nor rejecting it outright, neither pursuing mastery nor retreating from it—truly, his extraordinary insight into calligraphy inspires awe. Should one question how this discernment was acquired or realized, the primary cause lies in his innate talent; the second in his exceptional experiences and art-steeped life; the third in the blessing of advanced age. To contemplate this is to recognize an exceptionally fortunate trinity of endowments.

When comparing Prince Itō’s calligraphy with Seizan-o’s, their solidity proved evenly matched. However, His Lordship’s work pressed upon us as shockingly vulgar calligraphy. A personality that remained steadfastly combative and indomitable throughout one’s life was equally worthy of admiration, but when it came to the elegance and artistic beauty indispensable to calligraphy’s content, these could not be found in His Lordship’s works—indeed, it was in Seizan-o’s calligraphy that they shone with decisive superiority. As such, the fact that there existed such a marked difference in beauty’s content—a difference that could not be altered—stood as both an object of fascination and something truly worthy of attention.

(Showa 11 [1936])

The Calligraphy of Mr. Ōtani Son'yū

As for this person called Ōtani Son'yū—whether to address him as Master or His Holiness—I knew nothing at all; consequently, I did not even know whether he was a teacher or a monk.
Since I did not even know whether he held monastic status, I was far too ignorant to qualify as a critic of Mr. Son'yū’s calligraphy.

Nevertheless, what I knew with certainty were his existence as a politician in the House of Peers; his figure as a gentleman in crested haori and hakama sitting composedly on a campstool at Takagamine Taikyō-an within the Kōetsu-kai, carving a tea scoop with vexed determination on a bustling roadside; and his executive-type persona strolling through Ginza's backstreets at night clad in modern attire, undaunted by neon lights.
Yet he was also a tea master whose discerning eye could instantly identify—with but a glance at the Seto Kurō's Oribe lid-vessel I once abruptly presented in a sushi shop—that it must be "something by Kurō or his ilk." Furthermore, according to acquaintances' accounts, he was a gentleman of remarkably broad and profound humanity—one who frequently ventured with cane in hand into the gloomiest recesses as far-flung as Kōtō to clandestinely yet boldly observe markets of coquettish commerce.
Strikingly free from moralist hypocrisy.
Truly clear and open-hearted—one wished to declare that all men ought to possess such composure.

In addition to discussing politics, he engaged in the tea ceremony; at other times, he ventured into dens of moral degradation to thoroughly investigate the extreme fringes of real society. He was both an investor in commercial enterprises and a man of character who devoted his energy as a scholar to school facilities.

He was truly a man of broad caliber as a human being—perhaps because of this—in a world teeming with those prone to bias, he did not easily lean toward anything.

During the period when I did not yet know his calligraphy, I observed him wandering through red-light districts as if every place were his verdant mountain, imagined him appearing beneath neon lights or in even more detestable realms of darkness, and—though he was supposedly a descendant of Shinran across several generations, one bearing that bloodline—I frowned in disapproval at what seemed a deluded monk of such magnitude.
However, once I saw the skilled calligraphy created by his hand, I suddenly found myself unable to refrain from respecting him.
That was because it was not the calligraphy of a corrupt monk such as I had imagined.
The fact that he is not a corrupt monk who, while maintaining the bearing of a high priest, deceives the world is fully explained and expressed in the content of his calligraphy.
His calligraphy, embodying his entire being, walks the true path of calligraphy with effortless grace.
His tea ceremony does not stand in the shallow realm of many contemporary tea masters.
His abundant taste is explained by his actual practice.
The paintings he occasionally creates give a faint impression of leisurely residing in heights unattainable by many of today’s painters.
They are worlds apart from the labored efforts typical of professional painters.
Each line of the paintings he creates, each stroke of the skilled calligraphy he wields, possesses a moisture akin to gentle rain.
There is a genuine, deeply felt moisture to them, is there not?
But this is created by his innate talent.
Next comes his cultivation reaching there.
I tell ordinary people that his abundant and authentic aesthetic taste, serving as its essence, allows him to wield his brush so freely and beautifully.

When I saw how many in society blindly believed that Zen monks excelled at calligraphy—and before I could laugh at society’s delusions—I witnessed monks so inept, so shameless in their hypocrisy, that I could not help but feel not only hatred but also profound contempt and sorrow.
It was not limited to Zen monks.
Regardless of sect or school, discovering calligraphy that truly followed the correct path remained exceedingly difficult at present.
Whenever department stores hosted what were called "modern high priest calligraphy exhibitions," I always found myself exclaiming that they were filled with modern esteemed fool-monks.
I, who utterly denied what passed for calligraphers’ calligraphy, never ceased to further criticize the works of those in the priesthood.
Many calligraphers lacked the cultivation necessary to truly grasp their own art.
In other words, they prided themselves solely on writing characters with dexterity.
To grasp what we called calligraphy—this would have been an impossible and unreasonable task.
They were nothing more than mere craftsmen.
However, for those who were monks, such a thing could not be permitted.
They were people who trained day and night to realize the path of things and who bore the responsibility to enlighten others.
If they not only failed to comprehend but indeed actively misapprehended to such an extent, one could not help but pass judgment.
My view that it was unacceptable for there to be no place where one should strive and did strive—who could possibly have called this unreasonable?

From this perspective, I conclude that Mr. Son'yū—irrespective of whether he is a monk—is a master of skilled calligraphy rare in modern times; moreover, should he indeed be a monk, I declare without hesitation that he stands as the sole skilled calligrapher among modern monks.
This holds true for the content of his paintings as well.
Setting that aside, what comes to mind is that he is blessed with good bloodline.
Whether we attribute it to this or that, all ultimately stem from his good bloodline.
Just as Prince Tokugawa, despite his somewhat lacking aesthetic taste, produced rare and beautiful skilled calligraphy, those not blessed with good bloodline could never hope to achieve such a feat.
(Showa 11 [1936])

The Calligraphy of Mr. Hirota Kōki and His Strict Father Toku-o

Having never seen Mr. Hirota’s calligraphy before, I had assumed that a man with his extensive diplomatic career would have little connection—if any—to such a distinctly Eastern art form as calligraphy.
Yet when I unrolled before me the works of Mr. Hirota Kōki—former Foreign Minister and current Prime Minister—I found myself astonished and moved to repeated admiration by his unexpectedly masterful brushwork.
This stems from how the Prime Minister’s calligraphy now before my eyes shows not merely a connection to the art, but bears clear traces of extraordinary practice.
Though I cannot say how many years ago he trained, pieces like *“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure”* fully embody calligraphy’s established principles and satisfy what practitioners term brushwork methodology.
To reach this level of technique, one must conclude he devoted at least two or three years of ardent study.
Whether this was childhood penmanship practice or youthful training I cannot definitively state—regardless, one readily imagines him as someone perpetually engaged with calligraphy.
The verifiable evidence lies in his reverent adherence to what might be called calligraphy’s fundamental laws and brush methods—attending to every stroke and dot with meticulous care that brooks no negligence.
This recognition also arises from observing not the faintest trace of impropriety or insolence within these works.
That is to say, what seizes our gaze is solely this deferential manifestation of sincerity.
Hence we may also state this is not calligraphy bearing some delicate artistic genius—the kind that transcends common sense and mortal realms to forbid all emulation.
That these works date from his tenure as Foreign Minister merits attention from the perspective of an art that ceaselessly expresses human character.

Thus, the calligraphic work from early summer of Showa 11 [1936]—namely *“Vastness”*, born from Mr. Hirota as Prime Minister a mere month or two prior—through (?) a marked shift in mental state, differed completely in character from his earlier *“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure”*, utterly transforming its calligraphic ability.
In terms of presence, it was not a change by mere degrees.
The calligraphic quality abruptly leaped severalfold.
If one were to have those ordinary calligraphers evaluate this, they might say: "Mr. Hirota has likely let his hand decline due to the busyness of becoming Prime Minister—what a pity, for his calligraphy from his time as Foreign Minister truly possessed an extraordinary refinement."
To the extent that such thoughts could arise, Mr. Hirota’s calligraphy had undergone a notable transformation worthy of attention.

*“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure”* was skillfully executed yet remained bound by conventional calligraphic methods and brush techniques, lacking original insight and conviction. Consequently, the brushwork trembled with apprehension as if touching a festering sore, bearing regret at being unable to assert its own decisive individuality.

But when examining *“Vastness”* recently created, one could not overlook how it proceeded as if traversing uninhabited realms—utterly unafraid of any critic—with the brush at last moving in solemn dignity and ease through the conviction of “I am myself.” It was the work of conviction that true calligraphy aspires to that had been born. Here, I breathed a sigh of relief. One who holds the position of Prime Minister must be capable of producing calligraphy to this extent. As history demonstrates, those who indeed rule over domains and castles all excel the masses in insight and presence. Setting aside calligraphy’s technical skills to make it shine as exceptional—transcending mere proficiency or deficiency—the ink traces undeniably conveyed the fact embodying skilled calligraphy’s value.

Considering this perspective, it was indeed only natural that Mr. Hirota, having suddenly assumed the position of Prime Minister, experienced a turning point in his mental state—resolutely clearing away the labyrinthine complexities and achieving profound enlightenment in calligraphy.

The technical flourishes seen in his earlier work *“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure”* were now rightfully overlooked, and we had to celebrate the Prime Minister for having plunged headlong into substance.
In this context, what particularly deserved mention was that while it was true technical flourishes had been discarded, this did not in the least signify that technique itself had been ignored.
It signified that minor technical flourishes were no longer dwelled upon.
Observe: In *“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure”*—where every stroke and dot had been meticulously handled—the signature “Kōki” conversely stood forlornly in solitary shadow, divorced from the main text’s context and lacking vigor like a stray cur. By contrast, *“Vastness”* showed not the slightest divergence between its main text and signature; they shared a unified pulse, harmonizing with poetic cadence. This revealed traces of progress in fundamental technique and marked the attainment of true artistry.
In every detail—down to the positioning of the impressed seal finding its proper place—there was nothing to cast doubt on its artistic value.

Those who advanced to positions where they need not dwell on trivial details, and those who upon reaching such positions no longer concerned themselves with minutiae—these indeed might be called individuals of true leader's caliber. The author could not cease to admire the Prime Minister himself, who could be perceived through these ink traces. Even so, as the proverb says "a melon vine does not bear eggplants," the Prime Minister too was no renowned flower that had blossomed from an unknown weed.

Upon viewing *“Flowers Blooming in Ten Thousand Nations’ Spring”*, how could one help being astonished by the calligraphy of Hirota Toku—a father of grand bearing whose broad-mindedness matched his expansive physical frame? It was fluidity itself. Moreover, it mysteriously possessed a noble air. This too could not have been achieved by anyone less than a ruler of lands and castles. It deserved to be called a rare example of skilled calligraphy.

Judging from the execution of his son Prime Minister Kōki’s *“Lushness Embracing Evening Verdure…”*, the father was indeed a parent embodying skilled calligraphy.
However, it was only with the emergence of *“Vastness”* that the Prime Minister first demonstrated an expression of value excelling in dignity, ultimately surpassing his father’s ability.
Here, if we attempt a comparative assessment of their characteristics, the following evaluation would likely be permissible.
In terms of technical mastery in calligraphy, his father’s skilled works were no match for Mr. Kōki’s.
Yet when evaluating dignity of content value, even his father’s skilled works must—regrettably—concede three paces to his son Mr. Kōki.
This was the author’s own impartial view.
What could father and son achieve together?

(Showa 11 [1936])