The Great Wave, Kanagawa - Hokusai (British Museum) |
There are certain threads which run
through our lives. Interests which never seem to diminish with the passing of
time. If anything, they tend to get stronger and develop deeper meanings for us
as we get older. My love of Japanese art is one such thread. I first
encountered Japanese paintings and prints when visiting the British Museum as a
child. I remember at the time I bought some postcards of prints by Hokusai and
Hiroshige in the museum shop, postcards which I treasured for many years
thereafter. I’d often look at them and sometimes I’d try to imitate their style
in my own pencil drawings.
View of Fuji from Hakone - by Hiroshige (British Museum) |
Exactly twenty years ago, during
the summer of 2001, there was a small exhibition in the BM’s Japan gallery
titled, 100 Views of Mount Fuji. I lost count of how many times I went
to look at it during my lunch breaks. I found it mesmerising. It showcased
works drawn from the BM’s collection dating from the 17th century to
the present – from the traditional schools of Kanō, Sumiyoshi, and Shijō to
later and more personal interpretations by individual artists, such as
Katsushika Hokusai and Utagawa Hiroshige. The exhibition catalogue, by Timothy
Clark, succinctly describes the undying fascination for this enormous yet graceful
and compelling landmark: “Mount Fuji is renowned worldwide as Japan’s
highest and most perfectly shaped mountain. Serving as a potent metaphor in
classical love poetry and revered since ancient times by mountain-climbing
sects of both Shintō and Buddhist faiths, Fuji has taken on many roles in
pre-modern Japan.”
The beauty of Mount Fuji is truly
majestic in whichever season you view it. I’ve seen it in Spring, Summer,
Autumn, and Winter. The first time I saw it though was from a high-rise hotel
in Tokyo’s north-eastern neighbourhood of Ueno in October 2003, just two years
after the 100 Views of Mount Fuji exhibition. It was a tiny but
perfectly white, snow-clad triangle glimpsed in the far distance on the horizon
above the vast metropolis of buildings. I saw it on the last day of my first
trip to Japan, and it felt like a final gift from the Gods, marking the end of
a wonderful journey. I was very fortunate to have Tim Clark as my travelling
companion on that first journey. We were accompanying a BM exhibition to Tokyo’s
Metropolitan Museum. On our arrival we’d had a long wait at Narita Airport
before loading the trucks and finally rolling out onto the road. Jetlag was
getting the better of me. I dozed off while the truck was motoring along,
lulled by the motion of the wheels on the road. Tim gently nudged me awake,
saying: “Sorry to wake you, but I’m sure you won’t want to miss this.” I looked
out of the window to find we were still driving along the highway, but now the
road was arching gracefully up onto the Rainbow Bridge, crossing Tokyo harbour.
The bridge, as befits its name, was lit up brightly in the night sky, changing
slowly through a myriad cycle of multifarious colours. And there, beyond the
bridge and the Odaiba Ferris Wheel, I could now see the glittering cityscape of
Tokyo itself. Tim was right. It was a stunning and unforgettable introduction
to the city which I’d read and heard so much about. It was probably no surprise
that I fell irrevocably in love with the place during that first trip. The fact
I came down with a streaming cold at the end of our time there didn’t dampen my
enthusiasm at all.
Biru no tanima ni - by Hagiwara Hideo (British Museum) |
My second trip to Japan a few
months later was when I managed to get much closer to Mount Fuji. I’d read
about Kawaguchi-ko in my guidebook and it seemed like the perfect spot to get
some scenic photos of Mount Fuji with the five lakes area in the foreground.
Back in 2001, I’d spent hours studying Tim’s exhibition catalogue, and I’d
turned my own hand to painting views of Mount Fuji in watercolours. Some were
modelled on the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition, others were more
free-form efforts, inspired by the styles and schools he described. One
painting which evidently struck me was a view painted by Niwa Kagen
(Yoshitoki), titled ‘Mount Fuji Seen from Hara, Fourth month, 1770.’ Kagen’s
painting looks perhaps more Western than Japanese, which is surprising (as
Tim’s book notes) given that Kagen’s later works are much more influenced by
Chinese styles of painting. It’s thought that this view was probably painted
from life while Kagen was travelling along the Tōkaidō, one of Edo-era Japan’s main trunk roads,
from his native city of Nagoya. My version differs in the foreground,
where I’ve added a scattering of trees and used more green tones in the
landscape at the foot of the mountain, attempting to echo the styles of later artists such as Ishibashi Richō, Oki Kangaku, and Suzuki Nanrei.
A View of Fuji from Kawaguchi-ko - by Hokusai (British Museum) |
At the time I painted this picture
I never dreamed I’d ever go to Japan, at least not so soon after I’d painted
it. I’d always hoped I get the chance to go someday, so when I boarded a bus at
Shinjuku during the Christmas and New Year holidays of 2003-2004, and found
myself journeying alone out to the foothills of this stunningly sublime
mountain which I’d seen so much of in Tim’s book, life seemed to have heeded my
heart and effortlessly followed my dreams, magically taking me along too,
transporting me there. When I got off the bus, just as I was about to set off, an
old man who’d been a fellow passenger hailed me and asked where I was going. In
a mixture of my broken Japanese and his broken English I managed to convey I
was there to view Mount Fuji. He asked if I was staying the night here in
Kawaguchi-ko, or heading back to Tokyo the same day. I said I was heading back
later that day, and so he motioned for me to follow him. He then sought out the
bus stop I’d need to return to and checked the timetable, telling me what time
the buses departed and most importantly when the last one would leave. This was
exceptionally kind and very thoughtful of him, I realised, because he knew better
than I did that the last bus of the day would be leaving in just a couple of hours’
time. If I missed it, I’d be stuck there for the night! – I thanked him very
much and we both bowed low and then went our separate ways.
I took the cable car up the side of
a small hill, called Mount Tenjo, overlooking the town and the lake. There I
managed to get some stunning photos of the wintry sun setting beside Mount Fuji
in a crystalline blue sky. I had a 35mm film SLR camera with me, plus the first
digital camera I’d ever owned, which I’d bought just a week or two before in
Tokyo’s electric town, Akihabara. Reviewing some of the photos I’d taken with
this little digital marvel in the darkness during the return bus ride to
Shinjuku, I saw I’d managed to get some decent shots, firstly through the bus
window whilst on the highway travelling out and also at the top of Mount Tenjo
too. My 35mm photos later came out rather well too. These images seemed to live
up to those I’d seen and studied so intently in Tim’s 100 Views book. In
my mind, while sitting on the bus, driving through the night back to Tokyo, I
recalled the small painting I’d done after Niwa Kagen’s and I decided that the
smaller peak in my rendering of the scene was perhaps a foreshadowing of this
trip to Mount Tenjo, as if it were fated that one day – this day, in fact – I’d
reach this particular place, a region far distant from home, where my
imagination had been transformed into my present reality.
My painting of Fuji, after Niwa Kagen - by Tim Chamberlain, 2001 |
View of Fuji from Hara - by Niwa Kagen, 1770 (British Museum) |
I have seen Mount Fuji many times
since during my subsequent travels to Japan, either from the highway or from
the bullet train, or from other tall buildings in Tokyo and the countryside
thereabouts, during the times when off-and-on I’ve been staying or living in
Tokyo for extended periods. But I never imagined that one day I’d be able to
see Mount Fuji from the balcony of my very own home here. A home in which my
own little painting of this magnificent mountain now hangs upon the wall. Yet
each morning and evening I make a point of parting the curtains to see if Fuji-san
is visible and not hidden by clouds. It’s always such a magical sight to behold
when the sky is clear, I love to stand on the balcony and gaze at it. Fuji
often seems to hang in the air, emerging from the sky with the most elegant of lines
as if ever so lightly traced by the sharp edge of a soft brush, just like in
the paintings and prints in Tim’s exhibition which I’d first seen exactly
twenty years ago back in London. I was very lucky to have travelled to Japan that
first time with Tim, and again on several subsequent occasions too. He
understood and shared my affinity for Japan, he also encouraged me to learn the
language. Tim retired from the BM last year, and although I told him during our
first trip together to Japan how much I’d enjoyed his exhibition, I’m not sure
if I myself really knew at that time just how deeply his 100 Views of Mount
Fuji had affected and influenced me, because looking back on that time now,
I can see Mount Fuji has certainly remained a constant presence, abiding with
me ever since.
View of Mount Fuji from our balcony, 2021 |
Like the sacred ropes seen in
certain Shintō shrines here in Japan, that eternal perfect view of Mount
Fuji has become a thread running through my life – tugging me back to the past,
now anchoring me to the present, and very likely pulling me towards the future.
Each time I look at Fuji-san, I thank the Gods (the Shintō Kami)
and my lucky stars that I have been so fortunate to have found myself
allied to this great mountain, like a totem. Perhaps, in some transcendental sense
– Mount Fuji is synonymous with the Japanese character 縁 –
‘en.’ Meaning a sense of fate or destiny, something unseen yet
strong which joins and binds two living things to one another – a
bond which cannot easily be broken. Such are the threads which run on and on
through our lives, after all, leading us wherever we will ourselves to go.
Also on 'Waymarks'
A Visit to the Temples of Hiei-zan
A Poetic Pilgrimage to Matsushima
Health & Safety at Work - Handling Japanese Swords
Click on the images of the original Japanese artworks above to link to more information on the British Museum's website
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