Pathway to Japanese Literature

I believe that many readers were already familiar with Minakawa Masu—the elderly woman who painted clay pots for many years at Mashiko’s kilns in Tochigi Prefecture.
Those clay pots decorated with landscapes and plum branches were likely recognizable even to those with only a cursory interest in ceramics.
Though truly ordinary objects, I chose them as my subject precisely because they seemed to contain numerous fundamental questions about beauty.
Moreover, being widely known items made them an ideal medium for discussion.
The elderly woman was already over eighty years old; thus her life’s work with the brush was nearing its end.
For this reason I took up my pen hoping these words might commemorate her lifetime’s endeavor.

Minakawa Masu's Paintings

I did not intend to write here in detail about the history, techniques, or other aspects of Mashiko clay pots.
For now, I deemed it sufficient if you simply kept the following points in mind as preliminary knowledge.

1. The painting seen on those clay pots is one of Japan’s traditional patterns.
2. The landscape paintings likely originated in Shigaraki of Ōmi Province, but in Mashiko, they came to be vigorously painted from around the mid-Meiji period.
3. The patterns included “landscapes,” “Four Gentlemen,” “peonies by a fence,” and likely nearly twenty varieties, but among these, it was the landscape paintings that were particularly emphasized.

1. All were impersonal patterns handed down through generations, with no works bearing artists' names to be found.
The absence of signatures was the inherent nature of this type of pottery.
They were originally inexpensive clay pots—primarily ordinary utilitarian ware used in kitchens throughout the Kantō region.

1. Around the 20s and 30s of the Meiji era (1887–1904), production volume reached its peak.
It was said that over ten people had been engaged in painting at that time; Minakawa Masu was one of them, and she alone survived until today.
Moreover, demand for these painted clay pots no longer matched former levels, and in recent years production suddenly declined.
She learned to paint around age ten, continued working ever since, and had thus painted clay pots for some sixty to seventy years.

1. It is said that during her prime and in prosperous times, she painted a thousand pieces a day, with five hundred pieces being considered standard.
This shows how swiftly and prolifically they were painted.

1. Masu was an ordinary painter without education—illiterate and possessing no wealth—whose wages were exceedingly low even by contemporary standards.
Yet she had a robust physique, a strong character, a keen mind, and a certain masculine vigor.

Now then, to proceed with our discussion, I believe that would suffice if you would kindly keep in mind the aforementioned matters.

II.

However, the primary reason for writing such an essay lies in the fact that while these paintings are utterly ordinary, they possess extraordinary beauty.
Though treated as carelessly as mere consumables by all until now, they will surely come to be displayed in museums in the future.
In recent years, a stone monument engraved with an imperial poem was erected in Mashiko Town.
It bears verse His Majesty composed upon viewing Masu-jyo’s paintings.

Lacking even [pretense], the old woman’s painted works
How intriguing that people now admire them.

I consider this an excellent poem that has skillfully captured the essential nature of her painting.
Before the Great War, an international crafts exhibition was held in Germany, and from Japan, through our hands, we submitted several unique items, but we did not forget to include these landscape-painted clay pots among them.
The judges were renowned craftsmen and museum curators from various European and American countries, but it was indeed this inexpensive clay pot that received the gold medal—a fact I found truly intriguing.
Naturally, the exquisite quality of these paintings caught the attention of discerning individuals.

These facts ultimately deepened people’s understanding， leading Tochigi Prefecture to award Masu-jyo the Prefectural Cultural Prize in 1953．
However， when I reflected on this matter，the favorable conditions for producing beauty seen in modern artworks were almost entirely absent there．
1．The fact that these paintings are by no means the brushwork of a genius．
1．The fact that this work is not at all original．
1．The fact that they are not rare items but commonplace ones．
1．The fact that they are not made with an understanding of beauty．

1. The fact that they were never meant to be exhibited or appreciated.
1. The fact that no trace of individual expression could be found.
Therefore, it was rather that all the following adverse conditions had coalesced.
1. The fact that they were painted by an ordinary, uneducated person.
1. The fact that the designs were not of her own creation.
1. The fact that identical patterns were being repeated countless times.
1. The fact that they amounted to nothing more than cheap utilitarian ware.
1. The fact that they had been painted without any knowledge of beauty.
1. The fact that it was sweaty labor-intensive work.

1. The fact that there was no trace of outstanding individuality.
1. The fact that nowhere could a signature be found.

When we considered these matters, rather, only the qualities that had been cursed by many people stood out.
Yet despite all this, how did that painting come to be so beautifully rendered?

III.

What remains particularly mysterious is that this painter was no creator at all, but rather someone who repeatedly executed the same few inherited patterns, utterly incapable of producing any other designs.
These were not patterns of her own invention, but merely motifs passed down through generations.
This endless repetition might be likened to what we call "a fool's single memorized skill."
With identical patterns day after day, anyone would normally grow thoroughly sick of painting.
One might indeed call it soul-crushing work.
In truth, she must have occasionally felt precisely this way.
Yet her circumstances demanded she repeat these motions to survive.
However monotonous or devoid of meaning, she had no choice but to persevere.
This grueling labor stood in stark contrast to artists who work only when inspiration strikes.
Yet from such adversity emerged beauty surpassing what even trained artists could readily achieve—a paradox that defies easy explanation.

Since she was originally repeating designs taught by others over and over again, there had never been any opportunity to express individuality from the very beginning. There might be slight variations depending on who painted them, but these differences amounted to nothing more than an extra line added here, a stroke drawn longer there, or a few more dots in another place. In this type of painting, individuals' original differences did not become an issue at all. In any case, the differences in individuality among those who painted were reduced to the minimum extent. Therefore, no matter who painted them, they showed great similarity with minor differences; even when thousands upon thousands were painted, these too became nearly identical. They were not masterpieces created once in a lifetime nor grand works; rather, the same designs were painted over and over in countless numbers. It was not work done by one or two people.

Let us attempt to calculate how many clay pots Masujo painted in her long life up to now.
Taking into account periods of peak productivity and recent years of decline, even with a conservative estimate, the number of clay pots she painted was thought to surpass the astonishing figure of four million.
As I stated before, it was said she painted five hundred pieces a day, and at times even a thousand.
The quantities produced by individual artists showed as vast a difference as heaven and earth; hers revealed an enormous quantity.
Moreover, such an astonishing quantity did not end at mere numbers.
It was inevitable that this imparted a mysterious power to the objects.
This exerted a profound influence on the spirit, the method of making, and the beauty itself.

It was thought that tens of millions—no, likely hundreds of millions—of these clay pots had been produced and consumed across various regions of Japan.
Generally speaking, the fate of clay pots was ephemeral—their mouths chipped, their lids cracked, their handles tore off, and they had to do battle with that enemy called fire.
It was not uncommon to find their final resting places in garbage dumps or muddy ditches.
They must indeed be called the quintessential example of utilitarian ware—sold very cheaply and used roughly.
Then how did such lofty beauty emerge from these lowly circumstances?
"If describing it as 'lofty' risks misunderstanding," I reflected, "shall we instead rephrase it as an 'intimate, unconstrained beauty'?"
I resolved to enumerate the reasons as follows.

IV

Common sense would suggest that qualities like being inexpensive, commonplace, or crudely made are not considered attributes that ensure beauty in the slightest. Moreover, it tends to be dismissively regarded as mere craftsman’s work. Yet when observing the results, how does such extraordinary beauty come to manifest?

1. Repetition might seem monotonous and even cursed, yet this very repetition brings mastery to the craft. Through this process, techniques become fully refined and production methods gain assuredness. Is this not a vital element in securing beauty?

1. This mastery ultimately reaches a point where it prevents one from being conscious of what is being drawn each time.
This freedom from the constraints of consciousness achieves remarkable effects.
It reveals what conscious awareness cannot manifest.

1. This type of painting has been an impersonal task from the very beginning.
For this reason, some may criticize it as lacking individuality, but on the other hand, it also means not being confined to the petty individuality of humans.
Precisely because of this, it becomes connected to something universal.
This is precisely why they become patterns intimate to all.

1. Being utilitarian ware liberated them from concerns like needing to paint beautifully or avoiding crude execution.
The work did not occupy such a relative position.
This was precisely why they were painted with such uninhibited freedom.

1. Though painting the same predetermined subject might imply constraint, by surrendering oneself completely to this subject matter, one felt no constraint whatsoever; rather, one mastered it with inner freedom.
The designs were originally conceived by humans, but what liberated us from that very conception could be called the virtue of repetition.
As a result, they transcended artifice and returned to naturalness.

1. It was said that one painted yesterday’s design again today and would repeat it tomorrow, but in truth, one reached a state of painting having forgotten all, so there remained no fixation—each stroke became free and unconstrained.
Therefore, when viewing the paintings, there was not the slightest tedium of repetition; each brushstroke remained perpetually fresh and vividly alive.
Not a single line or dot lay dormant.
In other words, there was always the essence of “painting in the present moment.”
There existed something that was repetition and yet not repetition.

1. The act of painting many quickly always simplifies the designs.
2. It does not mean merely becoming crude; it signifies being crystallized.
3. Often they transform to the point where one cannot discern what is depicted, yet in truth, nothing reveals reality more powerfully than this unreality.

V

In beautiful folk crafts, such characteristics are often observed.
It may indeed be said that these various virtues represent distinguishing features found in traditional crafts.
They might further be considered additional merits bestowed upon handicrafts created through labor.
Of course, not all traditional items were beautiful, nor could one claim all labor necessarily yielded beauty.
When eras declined and environments deteriorated, tradition itself would sink into lifelessness.
Yet fortunately for these painted clay pots, their history began when times were still favorable.
Thus their patterns never became dormant or deceased.
Moreover, this work differed fundamentally from modern machine production's labor—it remained profoundly human.
Being manual craftsmanship meant maintaining an intimate connection with heart and humanity through work.
Therefore morality persisted in what was created.
Gratefully, precisely this kind of work carried no small measure of joy.
This very joy inherent to being human might well be called beauty's generative force.
The prevalence of beauty in handmade work finds its reason here.

Even if the labor involved extraordinary sweat, it could not be called mere toil.
"The premise that 'labor is pain' does not necessarily apply to handicraft."
Therefore, handicraft did not demand "time reduction" as an inherent right like machine production.
Rather, it became work unaware of time—labor existing beyond temporal measure.
Here "timelessness" meant neither endless extension nor measurable duration.
Hence artisans often forgot lengthy hours—sometimes working through nights rather than waiting for dawn.
This was clockless work.
Is it not precisely such timeless labor that constitutes truly human endeavor?
Handicraft carried pride within its sweat.

As you well know，those clay pots could be said to represent a quintessential example of folk crafts as daily utilitarian ware．Therefore，they were inexpensive items—never aristocratic goods—and consequently did not attain high social standing．However many they produced，from the very beginning there were meager financial and social rewards．If utilitarian wares had been high-priced and rare items，they would have immediately lost their reason for existence．How could such circumstances guarantee beauty？The fact was that they were beautiful；therefore，we had to unravel their secret．It could be said that the very fact of their being inexpensive items conversely liberated the mindset and methods of creation．When one considered how the nature of so-called high-class goods tended to be cold or rigid，or overly decorated，I thought one could well understand．In high-class goods，one could not find uninhibited freedom．Those items feared flaws，worried about warping，and dreaded imperfection．Thankfully，in the case of utilitarian ware，they were not accompanied by such obsessions．The mindset of creation remained free and unburdened throughout．Might I call this the surplus virtue of cheap goods？Of course，should their roughness have become excessive，they would have lost their beauty．However，the phenomenon encapsulated in the phrase “cheap and bad” became pronounced after the Industrial Revolution；it was nothing other than a result of being plagued by commercialism．Legitimate folk crafts made possible the paradox of “cheap and good．”The painted clay pots of Mashiko were one such legitimate folk craft．

VI

Now, within the fountain of beauty I previously presented, I mentioned such concepts as “repetition that is not repetition” and “paintings that are always being painted now.” I imagine these phrases may strike one as somewhat difficult to grasp, but as they represent an exceedingly crucial point, I shall provide a brief explanation. Here, the term “now” carries the same meaning as “sokkon” (即今) in Buddhist affirmative expression. It is “tadaima” (只今). It is this “now” (この今). In other words, one need not count time horizontally but consider it vertically. It is not today positioned between yesterday and tomorrow, but sokkon (即今) that holds neither before nor after. Or perhaps we might call it a center that permits neither left nor right. It is the self-existing now. Therefore, no matter when one paints, no matter how many times one paints, it becomes a painting that can only be painted now. Therefore, that painting always exists in a fresh now. Though it is repetition, it is never a repetition of yesterday. When human work enters into freedom, it is not bound by yesterday or tomorrow. What exists is only a continuity of the immediate now; it ceases to be a mere continuation from yesterday. Therefore, it is repetition yet not repetition, and the reason why there is always freshness in the paintings can be seen there.

In the past, there was a devout myōkōnin named Kichibē.
Since his wife had long been afflicted by palsy, he nursed her devotedly day and night.
He attended to everything—from cleaning the room and preparing meals to laundry and even the most intimate tasks.
Of course, being poor, he was in no position to hire help.
The villagers, pitying him, offered consolation: “You must be utterly exhausted.”
To this Kichibē responded: “Oh, but there’s no such thing as fatigue for me.
For with each and every day’s work, it is always both commencement and completion—there exists no redoing.”

I believed this succinctly expressed the true nature of a myōkōnin’s daily way of life. Applying Kichibē’s words, each painting on the clay pots represented both the beginning and completion of creation—it was not mere redoing. Therefore, no matter how many she painted, they emerged as vivid paintings.

There existed an old poem that stated: “Hototogisu—each time one hears it, it is the first song.” I thought it was a good poem. Whenever one heard it—no matter how many times—the moment when there existed a feeling of hearing it for the first time was when one was truly listening. It was said that Zen Master Dōgen had disliked the phrase “and then,” but one perceived a profound meaning lingering within. “The destiny of work did not lie in ‘until now’ or ‘from now on’; there was no life in work except in ‘this very now.’”

VII

How could those humble painted clay pots reach such a realm?
One might say this was because it constituted work unencumbered by personal attachment.
Moreover, being humble utilitarian ware, this may also have stemmed from there having been no objects worthy of particular attachment from the very beginning.
Because they painted countless instances of the same motif, it might also be said that they finally attained a state where they could paint without conscious thought.
This forgetting of self—this reaching a state where one grew unaware even of what one painted—liberated both mind and work alike.
They became freed from mental constraints about painting skillfully or avoiding clumsiness.
There, unhindered work came into being.
When freedom was attained, they were no longer bound by yesterday’s or tomorrow’s repetitions.
There existed nothing but the fact of painting now.
The spirit of “being sovereign wherever one stands” emerged.

Repetition is undoubtedly tedious in one aspect, but that it makes one forget tedium might also be called the wonder of repetition. The artisans never worked irritably. They did not quickly grow bored or become listless. They simply carried out their work steadily. It became what Zen calls “uneventful” work. Repetition became tedious precisely when one became separated from their work. However, to entrust themselves to repetitive work, the artisans quieted themselves. Therefore, their work was never carried out in irritation.

Zen Master Dōgen always taught that zazen performs zazen itself.
Precisely as it should be—if someone performs zazen or does zazen for some purpose, it cannot be called true zazen.
In the same way, unless one enters the realm where work performs work and paintings paint themselves, true beauty cannot emerge.
The old woman’s painted clay pots are undoubtedly painted by her, yet she and the paintings are not two separate entities.
Therefore, it is neither the old woman who paints nor something being painted; it is simply painting.
It is in the place where the opposition between the painter and the painted object has vanished that the wondrous quality of those paintings emerges.
I wish to call this—by borrowing Zen’s positive expression—*tanmo no e* (just-painting).

The beauty of these painted clay pots could be said to be rooted in their liberation from such duality. In the works of contemporary individual potters, even when seeking pieces that equal these, their scarcity signifies how exceedingly rare are the craftsmen who have attained such freedom. Should a craftsman perceiving profound truth in these inexpensive clay pots emerge, his work would inevitably transform in nature.

VIII

When we consider the history of these landscape-painted clay pots, their production extended from Sōma and Mashiko in the north, Shigaraki and Akashi in central regions, to Noma no Sarayama in the south—flourishing in each locale due to considerable demand.
In pieces believed to be older, we find designs that were far more detailed and approached sketches in their execution.
However, as this gradually became a tradition and matured into a style—and as numerous pieces came to be produced—the speed and mass production increasingly simplified the designs, to the extent that now, even though one could recognize them as landscapes overall, it had become difficult to ascertain what each element originally represented.
One hears apt explanations such as mountains representing Tsukuba, water Kasumigaura, and flowers Mito, but while this applies to Mashiko ware from Kantō, it does not hold true for Shigaraki ware from Kansai.
It is simply that mountains, water, and flowers sufficed.
It was merely that these became abbreviated and transformed into landscapes through painting.
However, when compared to the original meticulously realistic designs, the reason these simplified versions instead exhibited vivid vitality was thought to lie in how they had been compressed and filtered into only what was necessary, becoming “the one indispensable thing,” which further guided the designs toward a denser concentration of life.
All such simplifications transcended realism to present what might be called “pictorial fiction,” but as I had previously noted, this very fabrication served to emphasize truth—it was the path that the expression of beauty necessarily sought.
Such simplifications were pursued throughout the world of crafts and had to be called a great fountainhead of beauty.

The simplifications seen in painted clay pots were something inevitably brought about by the nature of the work.
This differed from consciously intending beauty through omission.
Swiftness was particularly demanded for inexpensive goods, but this very speed guided the designs toward simplification.
In this case, one should not have regarded swift techniques as crude; it signified that the movement of hand techniques eliminated waste, adhered to a fixed form, and rather achieved certainty.
Swiftness was not disorder; it was for the sake of certainty.
If uncertain, it would never have been accompanied by speed and would have become awkward; when observing the work—where to begin painting, where to end, how to hold the clay pot in hand, how to grip and move the brush—all these steps followed an established order.
Such masterful technique was by no means limited to the tea ceremony alone.

The paintings themselves were confined within the style and never deviated from it. They did not paint capriciously; consequently, nor did they go out of their way to make each one different. They always continued to uphold the form. That they remained immersed in such a state and yet exhibited a beauty brimming with vitality was truly wondrous. There, entering the form did not mean being bound by it; rather, one might better say that by becoming the form completely, the form itself came to perform the work. In this case, it went without saying that the form was not merely a convention; one might say it was the condensed embodiment of living essence. It was not a dead form, but one born of intense vitality.

Each painting appeared similar, yet there was something different about each one.
It was repetition, and yet within it somewhere creation lurked.

IX

In Buddhism, there exists what is called dharani.
They transliterate Sanskrit sounds directly into Chinese characters and pronounce them as such, so ordinary people unfamiliar with the original text cannot comprehend them in the slightest.
It is a kind of esoteric language into which Buddhism has imbued profound meaning.
Even if not such dharani, were one to recite Chinese-translated sutras in a monotone, those unversed in specialization would likely find no way to grasp their meaning.
Yet when listening to sutra chanting today, they still often employ this monotone recitation, leaving listeners unable to even guess which sutra is being chanted.
Why do they persist in such dharani-like reading methods?
One might dismiss it as mere custom, but could there not be some inevitable reason?
To intellectual modern people, such incomprehensible recitation would naturally invite scorn from the outset.
At first consideration, this seems valid criticism—anyone would assume the significance of sutra chanting lies precisely in understanding its meaning while hearing it recited.
Yet the matter appears not so simple.

Suppose one were to understand every nuance of the text’s meaning. But even if one achieved such comprehension, would that mean they had grasped the Dharma? Zen speaks of being “not established upon words or letters,” yet how limited must be the realm accessible through written characters alone! Have not Buddhist schools always taught that faith must not remain confined to such intellectual understanding? For if one truly comprehends, there arise matters that cannot be expounded through language—elements persisting beyond exhaustive analysis by reason. Thus there must exist understanding akin to dharani’s nature. Should we not employ such modes of expression? Though we speak of *shingon* secrets, there must be truths mastered through silent embodiment rather than explication. I believe it right that within the unknowable resides comprehension, while understanding itself contains the unfathomable. If all were understood and neatly resolved—what would remain? Could anything profound exist in matters so tidily settled? Is it proper to place such faith in our discriminating intellect? Religion teaches no sanctuary lies in such realms. Dharani must remain dharani; once “understood,” it ceases to be dharani—unless one enters dharani’s domain itself, true understanding cannot be claimed. What purpose could a fully comprehensible dharani serve for sincere faith?

Now, the reason I invoke dharani here is that I wished to assert how the paintings on clay pots, having fully matured into dharani-like images, served to deepen their beauty.
The landscape clay pots had been simplified to such an extent that, at a glance, one could not discern what was being depicted.
The original designs were landscape paintings anyone could understand, with each element clearly indicating what it represented—this must have been the case.
Yet when comparing these original designs with those transformed into abbreviated dharani-like paintings, one felt a far more vivid vitality in the latter.
This could be said to occur because the paintings had transcended explanation and assumed the character of dharani.
They were no longer mere paintings, but paintings distilled to their essence; not landscapes depicted, but landscapes of paint—nay, landscapes of painted illusion.
When viewed, they became paintings that defied neat resolution.
These were not works to be comprehended, but ones that transcended comprehension.
Therein lay the profound life of these clay pot paintings—the reason one sensed something vitally stirring within their inexplicable depths.
I resolved to call paintings ripened in this manner “Dharani-e.”

X

Once there was a devout old woman.
She attended a monk’s sermon where she heard expounded upon the profundity of the Diamond Sutra’s phrase “応無所住而生其心” (“One should give rise to that mind without abiding anywhere”).
The monk recited this in a monotone: “Ōmu Shojū, Nishōgoshin.”
Naturally, being uneducated, she could not grasp the sutra’s intricate explanations.
Nor did she possess the scholarly ability to read those Chinese texts.
Yet in one matter alone—the teaching that this phrase held profound significance—she embraced belief directly and without confusion.
Being unable to properly memorize the Chinese phrase, she contrived her own version: “Ōmugi Shōzu Ni Shō Go Sen” (“Barley, Red Beans, Two *Sho* and Five *Sen*”), committed it to memory, reverently adopted it, chanted it ceaselessly, and abandoned herself within its cadence.
The old woman harbored not a shred of intellectual discernment.
Thus no space remained for such things to enter.
Yet consider this outcome:
She attained a completely “abodeless” state and lived within the heart flowing forth from it.
Truly becoming “One should give rise to that mind without abiding anywhere” in literal truth, her incantation-like recitation of “Ōmugi Shōzu Ni Shō Go Sen” came even to heal the sick—so it is said.
Is this not a remarkable tale?
I perceive within painted clay pots too this incantatory quality where selfhood does not intrude.
Through this quality, I believe she could enter an “abodeless” artistic realm and paint entirely without attachment.

Therefore, this painting may also be likened to the Nembutsu.
While there may be various forms of Nembutsu, what everyone knows is the invocation of the six-character sacred name: "Namu Amida Butsu."
While it has now rather become a sort of Japanese phrase, since “Namu Amida Butsu” was originally a Sanskrit sound, there is no reason ordinary people should comprehend its meaning.
They simply chant "Namu Amida Butsu," "Namumamidabu," "Nammanda," and so forth.
Therefore, this too can be described as a kind of dharani-like invocation—they do not chant it by intellectually considering each element, that Namu means “taking refuge,” Amida signifies “immeasurable light” or “immeasurable life,” or Butsu refers to “the Awakened One.”
Such intellectualized Nembutsu can never be said to have been refined into true Nembutsu.
Simply chanting "Namu Amida Butsu" suffices; if one becomes bound by its meaning, it cannot yet be called true invocation.
It is said that Nembutsu resides in a single thought alone, but it is precisely the continuation of that single thought that constitutes myriad repetitions, and thus Nembutsu should be endless.
Rather, it should be said that walking, standing, sitting, and lying down reside within Nembutsu—not merely a million repetitions but a boundless Nembutsu.
However, it is not a matter of numbers, nor is it mere repetition.
It is the Nembutsu of single-minded concentration, devoid of before or after—or perhaps we might say, the Nembutsu that chants itself.
It is a Nembutsu that leaves no room for human wisdom to probe its meaning through this or that reasoning.
This is the true Nembutsu, and Nembutsu must also be ‘just’ Nembutsu.
It could be said that what Zen monks call shimo (“just this”) also constitutes the essence of Nembutsu.

The artistic realm of the old woman’s painted clay pots—steadfastly painting a thousand daily, painting while forgetting all else, forgetting herself, even forgetting the act of painting—truly felt akin to that dharmic realm of single-minded continuity, sharing a kindred pulse.
Each act of painting could also be said to be each Nembutsu.
Continuing to paint pot after pot took the same form as continuing to recite Nembutsu repetition after repetition.
Therein lay the karmic cause that gave rise to the extraordinary beauty of these painted clay pots.
Should we not rightly call these paintings "Nembutsu-e"?
As I had mentioned before, it was not accurate to say that the old woman painted.
Nor could it be said that she painted with the aim of depicting landscapes.
The old woman became the painting, and it was that painting which painted the paintings.
The subject who painted and the object being painted were not separate entities.
“The continuous invocation of the Name is none other than the Nembutsu reciting itself,” declared Ippen Shōnin.
If I recited the Nembutsu, it still could not be called true Nembutsu.
“Therefore, it is that the sacred Name hears the sacred Name,” declared the same holy man.
Thinking in this way, I felt as if the nature of the painted clay pots dimly came into view.
Might not the painted clay pot painters and the Nembutsu practitioners, though their paths differed, have been walking in the same manner?

XI

Having written this far, one cannot help but notice how remarkably strong this other-powered quality has become in these painted clay pots.
This painting was by no means work granted solely to those of superior skill.
Those lacking talent; those without strength; the poor; the lowly; both young and old; men and women—all gathered to this work.
And whoever they might be—the work did not pick and choose its people.
It simply demanded labor.
It demanded that many be painted.
It never expected originality from such people.
Yet being people without strength—they needed something to rely upon; for this purpose tradition stood prepared.
Tradition was already a universal entity transcending individuals.
This very impersonal nature must have been such precious support for beings who lacked even meager individuality.
The painted clay pots that became daily companions did not anticipate expressions of individuality.
No—had they been such things—they would have lost their universal nature.
Only when a clay pot could become anyone’s companion was it good.
Were personal quirks to manifest—the product would become difficult to use.

Therefore, the painting of these clay pots never hesitated to welcome ordinary people. It did not avoid even the uneducated or the mediocre. For *tariki* had prepared its path. Even if an individual maker was small, *tariki* as tradition shouldered great work. When one entered this realm, there was no need for genius as something separate. It welcomed those who worked silently and diligently. There, tradition guaranteed those people ample reward. Even those without strength—if they entrusted themselves to *tariki*—could be allowed to perform powerful work. It was not work that oneself accomplished, but work that one was allowed to accomplish. In this sense, the path of *tariki* was the path of easy practice and the path of sentient beings.

In these painted clay pots, *tariki* was vividly at work.
Even if those who painted were small, they felt a great power beyond themselves compelling their brushes.
In *tariki*’s realm, no line divided genius from mediocrity.
Rather, ordinary people found easier passage into this work.
For they carried no self to glorify.
A humble heart, an honest heart, a receptive heart—were these not virtues more richly granted to the unlettered and destitute?
As Jesus too had declared, heaven drew nearest to the poor in spirit.
This world held a path—requiring neither brilliance nor originality—where common mortals might splendidly manifest beauty.
Even in beauty’s domain, the teaching that “common mortals attain Buddhahood” must take root.
As one saw, folk kilns’ painted works bore no signatures.
They emerged from a realm untouched by such vanities.
Yet none could deny these paintings held splendor.
Mashiko’s landscape pots stood among those bearing witness.
These were vessels that had attained Buddhahood—this much demanded acknowledgment.
That very form of enlightenment manifested the living truth: common mortals could reach awakening while remaining common mortals.

The immutable fact generally found in the world of crafts was that nearly all beautiful works were imbued with the grace of Other-Power.
This manifested as an even clearer fact the further back we went in time.
Therefore, among those items rich in non-personal qualities, one hardly encountered signed works; the practice of signing craftworks arose under the influence of modern art and by no means had a long history.
Moreover, among these self-power-based signed works, one clear fact that became apparent was that those which had surpassed anonymous other-power-based works in beauty were exceedingly rare.
Why was this? Because relying on self-power made the path an arduous one.
It was because remaining confined to the individual caused the world to become constricted.
Moreover, one could not readily expect great individuality.

In contrast to this, the path of Other-Power was something prepared for sentient beings; even the foolish and the dull-witted, if they entrusted themselves to this power, found salvation assured.
The fact that countless splendid works were born from nameless workers told us how assuredly reliable the pledge of Other-Power truly was.
This fact further showed that Other-Power was indeed the path of easy practice.
If it had been an arduous path, how could the people, deficient in strength, possibly have borne it?
That in this world, alongside the path of self-power, a single path of Other-Power had been granted—what an arrangement beyond gratitude this was.

"The Tannishō states thus: 'Even good people attain birth [in the Pure Land], how much more so evil people.'"
When we brought this statement—truly difficult to comprehend in ordinary terms—into the world of crafts, we could not help but feel it was substantiated here as an utterly plain fact.
For we saw before our very eyes just how frequently Other-Power-based workers effortlessly accomplished what self-power-based artists could not easily achieve.
Even if one looked at painted clay pots created effortlessly, from which renowned artist had emerged a painting that could surpass these with such ease?
Even if they existed, why were they confined to such exceedingly rare examples?
Individual artists might appoint themselves as artists, but could they not have been more humble?
Misplaced self-conceit served only to diminish the work.
Perhaps only a humble heart served to purify and deepen their work.
Especially in the realm of crafts, one should reflect upon the grace of Other-Power.
Are not the painted clay pots teaching us precisely this?
Should we not receive inexhaustible truth from Granny Minakawa and from the countless nameless people who have done work like hers?