Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Art. Show all posts

30 May 2022

Raiders of the Lost Art

 


THE COMPENSATIONS OF PLUNDER by Justin M. Jacobs (University of Chicago Press, 2020)

An excellent and informed riposte to the increasingly prevalent notion that all art objects and ancient artefacts acquired in colonial and semi-colonial contexts are imperialist 'loot' - i.e. stolen - due to the relative imbalance in social/financial standing of the respective parties involved (individuals and nations). The Compensations of Plunder takes a leavening view of the current trends informing both popular and academic historiographical outlooks and warns against projecting our own perceptions and values onto historical actors whose worldviews were differently informed and therefore wholly distinct when compared to our own.

 

Aurel Stein

Sven Hedin


Paul Pelliot

 

Using the most prominent Western archaeologists of 'the Silk Road' (Aurel Stein, Sven Hedin, Paul Pelliot, Roy Chapman Andrews, Langdon Warner) during the first half of the twentieth century as his main examples, Justin Jacobs explores the difference in outlook between local officials at the time (rooted in traditional Confucian scholarly ideals) and their later (more nationalist-minded) successors who vilified the likes of archaeologists such as Sir Marc Aurel Stein. In doing so, Jacobs demonstrates how the concept of value in relation to archaeological artefacts and ancient manuscripts altered over time as a direct result of such outsiders’ interests in acquiring, preserving and studying such material. Originally the permissions extended to, and the subsequent transactions with these outsiders were fully understood and sanctioned by local elites and other indigenous agents, who perceived they were receiving a worthwhile return in the form of cultural, social, political, diplomatic as well as *financial* capital from such interactions and exchanges (hence the ironic title: 'compensations of plunder'). Indeed, without their active cooperation these Western archaeologists could not have travelled so widely, or excavated so extensively, nor removed such large quantities of material from the region. Ironically again, it was the moulding of the perception of later Chinese elites, a new younger generation of scholars and officials, who were often trained in the West, whose perceptions changed and so turned against foreign academics and 'imperialist adventurers' who had previously operated in China and eventually succeeded in drastically curtailing their activities when they agreed to undertake such expeditions jointly with Chinese academics, or otherwise managed to shut them down entirely and ultimately kick them out altogether, even before the advent of the CCP in 1949.

 

Langdon Warner

But that's not to say Jacobs is wholly uncritical of these foreign outsiders. He takes a broad view of the activities of each and examines the specifics of how (perhaps primarily due to their personalities) their methods and approaches differed, leading some to succeed where others failed, and some to be honoured and held in high esteem by locals (both elites and subalterns), while others were quite rightly scorned due to their haughty arrogance and high-handed manners, as well as their culturally insensitive and/or physically destructive methods whilst operating 'in the field.' In this respect, Jacobs bucks prevailing trends once again by appearing to be most sympathetic to Stein - who is often perceived and painted today as the archvillain of the group. Instead, Jacobs endeavours to show how Stein was the one archaeologist of the group (with Paul Pelliot perhaps coming a close second) who was most respected and the most sensitive to the mores of the old order of Confucian scholar-administrators, and how Stein was perhaps the least destructive, when compared to the likes of the more gung-ho proto-'Indiana Joneses', such as Roy Chapman Andrews and Langdon Warner.

 

Roy Chapman Andrews

Jacobs provides an excellent and thorough analysis of a solid and wide-ranging base of primary source material (both Western and Chinese), although I feel it is a shame that he concentrates almost exclusively on the bigger names, such as Stein, Hedin and Pelliot. Other colonial-era adventurers, for example, Kōzui Ōtani and Zuicho Tachibana, to name just two of the more unusual figures within this wider group, get only a passing mention relatively early on in the book, but this is perhaps understandable given the amount of material and the range of themes which Jacobs is able to explore and elucidate in the very comprehensive manner that he does. Putting that (perhaps subjective) quibble to one side, it does very clearly strike me that the book lends itself to potentially broader applications beyond the limitations of this particular study. Jacobs’ primary focus is, of course, the archaeological activities undertaken in the regions of Xinjiang and Gansu; however, there is clearly scope for his ideas to be extended to the art and antiquities market more widely and other (perhaps more commonplace) art objects which were acquired privately by individuals or for public museum collections in the West, particularly during the twilight era of Western colonial expansion and imperialist interaction with other parts of the world.

 

zui Ōtani

Essentially, this book is a salient reminder that history is not a simple case of right versus wrong or black versus white, but rather it is more like a kind of temporal 'grayscale', a gradated pattern of change which morphs over time. The Compensations of Plunder very deftly demonstrates how the sensitive historian should be prepared to modify their approaches and their final opinions accordingly if they wish to gain the greatest insights, particularly in terms of understanding the people who lived before us according to their own terms, rather than exclusively seeing everything through a blinkered back-projection of our own current worldview.


Justin M. Jacobs


Further Reading

Justin Jacobs

The Silk Road

The International Dunhuang Project

Japanese Exploration of Central Asia: The Otani Expeditions and their British Connections, by Imre Galambos & Kitsudō Kōichi - Bulletin of SOAS, Vol. 75, No. 1 (2012), pp. 113-134



Zuicho Tachibana (far left)

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Also on 'Waymarks'

'Colonial Loot' & Modern Museums

Pomp & Circumstance - Struggling with Empire

Confronting the Imperialist Elephant in the Room

Owen Lattimore's Desert Road


The Diamond Sutra



1 October 2021

Megaliths of Malta

 


Writing in 1924, the anthropologist, Leonard Dudley Buxton, observed: “The student of human history will find many remarkable things in Malta.” – He’s not wrong. For anyone with an interest in history, Malta is a genuine ‘Treasure Island.’ My first memory of hearing about this remarkable place was from my grandmother. When I was a child, she used to keep a handwritten list pinned by a magnet to the door of her refrigerator. It was a list of all the places she wanted to visit and all the adventurous the things she wanted to do. Once she’d done them, she used to get me to cross them off using a red pencil. Two of the things I remember listed on that piece of paper were a flight on Concorde and a visit to the Island of Malta. My grandmother knew I was very interested in history; hence I remember her showing me photographs of her and my grandfather riding the beautiful old buses (which until relatively recently were still in service on the island), visiting crumbling castles and sun-kissed harbours filled with beautiful sailing boats. Malta certainly did appeal to me. To my young ears there was a lyrical, lilting magic to the sound of its name, like honeycomb and milk chocolate – Malta. It was something I never forgot, and so, several decades later, having just finished my masters degree in history, I decided it was high time to finally see Malta for myself.

 

Old buses at Mdina, Malta

Malta is a small archipelago of five islands. The two main islands are Malta and Gozo, with two smaller islands, Comino and Cominetto, set in the channel between them; plus there is also a small outlying island, Filfla, located off the southwest coast of Malta. It is only a modest archipelago. Malta is about 95 miles square, and Gozo just 25 square miles. Consequently, it is the perfect size to explore during a one or two week holiday. I got myself a bus pass which enabled me to hop on and off the buses which frequently crisscross the island, and this proved to be the best way to navigate from one historical site to another because there are many interesting places to see. Human occupation on the island goes back to at least the Neolithic period when a flourishing culture constructed a series of unique and unusual megalithic ‘buildings’ and subterranean crypts, some of which predate other well known Neolithic sites such as Stonehenge in England. Many centuries later the island was home to the Hospitaller Knights of St. John who were displaced here from the island of Rhodes when Rhodes fell to the Ottomans in 1523. The Knights of St. John are responsible for most of the formidable fortifications which can still be seen in the main town of Valletta. In more recent history the island was known as ‘Fortress Malta’ during World War 2, when it formed an important naval base for the Allied resistance to the invading Nazi military machine in the Mediterranean arena.

 

'Gallarijia' balconies in Valletta

I spent my first day on Malta exploring the old town of Valletta which is a warren of narrow streets filled with fascinating old buildings, gardens, churches and ramparts. It is a picturesque place to wander around, the streets overhung by distinctive ‘gallarijia’ balconies, and plenty of churches to sneak a peek inside as you find them when strolling the back streets. The Co-Cathedral of St. John is well worth a visit with its grandly elaborate Barqoue interior lavishly decked out in gold, marble and bright paint. The Cathedral’s Oratory holds two marvellous paintings by Caravaggio – the Beheading of St. John the Baptist, painted in 1608, is Caravaggio’s largest canvas and also the only one of his works which he signed; plus, a portrait of St. Jerome writing, perhaps showing him translating the Bible from Greek into Latin. It is one of two versions of this subject by him which I particularly like. When Caravaggio was on Malta painting these works the Cathedral would have looked much more austere. Its Baroque decorations were added later over the course of many years.

 


The Co-Cathedral of St. John, Valletta


Beheading of St. John the Baptist, by Caravaggio


Caravaggio arrived here on Malta in July 1607 and became a novice of the Order of St. John. He was a brilliant young firebrand, noted for his prodigious talents in painting and picking fights. Having killed a well-connected man in Rome the year before, he fled Italy and found sanctuary on the island. Soon after his arrival he was involved in yet another brawl, this time with six other Italian knights in which a knight of high rank was shot and seriously wounded. Caravaggio was imprisoned in Fort St. Angelo, but managed a daring escape (perhaps aided by influential friends) in which he scaled the fort’s massive walls using ropes. He then fled once again, this time on a boat bound for Sicily. From here he made his way north to Naples, but his life on the run ended somewhat mysteriously when he died, it is thought from a fever, at the age of 39.

 

Saint Jerome, by Caravaggio

Caravaggio’s effect upon European painting was profound, particularly on Mattia Preti, who later painted the Cathedral’s six-section barrel-vaulted ceiling. Noted for its realism Caravaggio’s style broke with the norms of religious painting, note the absence of chubby little cherubs and winged angels in many of his works. His subjects can often be vividly gruesome, choosing to focus on beheadings and the like, but he is also capable of scenes of great serenity – as his two paintings of St. John and St. Jerome found here in the Cathedral each amply attest. Whilst I was staying on Malta I found an interesting book about Caravaggio’s time on the island, Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood and Malta, by Keith Sciberras and David M. Stone (2006).

 

Judith and Holofernes, by Valentin de Boulogne

Heraclitus, by ?

Malta’s National Museum of Fine Art (which I think has moved premises since I visited in 2014) also houses some really magnificent paintings. Here the works which struck me most were Valentin de Boulogne’s Judith and Holofernes, which shows clear influences of Caravaggio’s treatment of the same gruesome subject, and a very moving painting of an old man weeping, titled Heraclitus – which sadly I failed to note down the name of the artist (and I’ve since been unable to find any reference to it on-line. If anyone knows who it is by, please post a comment to let me know!). There are also two lovely and evocative views of Malta done by the Scottish artist, David Roberts, who is perhaps best know for his distinctive nineteenth-century views of ruined temples and other monuments which he painted whilst on a tour of Egypt.

 

Valletta Harbour, by David Roberts

The 'Sleeping Lady' from the Hypogeum

The National Museum of Archaeology in the centre of Valletta is also well worth a visit before heading out to the various archaeological sites of interest for which Malta is most famous. A large bust of Themistocles ‘Temi’ Zammit, the father of scientific archaeology on Malta and former Director of the Museum, greets you as you arrive. Here artefacts from Malta’s Neolithic Period (5000 BC) up to the Phoenician Period (400 BC), including the ‘Sleeping Lady’ (from the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum), the ‘Venus of Malta’ (from Ħaġar Qim Temples), Bronze Age daggers (from Tarxien Temples), and a Phoenician anthropomorphic sarcophagus, help to orient you and explain some of the temple sites before you visit. When I visited, perhaps taking its cue from Neil MacGregor, the Museum had put on a special exhibition illustrating the ‘History of Malta in 100 Objects’, including the George Cross Medal which was given to the island’s population as a whole in recognition of Malta’s key role during World War 2.

 


The George Cross Medal presented to the Island of Malta

Since its independence from Britain in 1964 the George Cross insignia has been incorporated into the national flag of Malta, a curious choice when you consider the fact that the George Cross is very much linked to the British Empire from which the island was then seceding, as well as the fact that Malta already has its own long established and very distinctive signature cruciform insignia – the Maltese Cross, which can be found on Maltese 1 Euro coins. I did read somewhere that this choice might have been made because, when the British Empire became the Commonwealth, it was mooted that Malta might be given British dependency status, in much the same way as Jersey and Guernsey, but in the end Malta was made fully independent instead.

 


Għar Dalam, the 'Cave of Darkness'

If you want to begin a tour of subterranean Malta chronologically then the place to start is the cave at Għar Dalam, which means ‘Cave of Darkness’ – although the cave is far less forbidding than its name might suggest, it is actually quite a nice escape from the sun and heat of the day outside. The cave is said to be one of the first places on the island to be inhabited by humans c.5200 BC. These early settlers are thought to have migrated here from Sicily. Malta is only 93 km from Sicily, apparently close enough to be seen on a very clear day. Excavations of the cave floor have yielded all the typical finds indicative of human settlement, such as human and animal remains, rubbish pits, ceramic sherds, etc., as well as much older faunal remains of animals such as hippos, elephants, bears, foxes and wolves. The archaeologists have left a section of the earth in situ to show the stratigraphy of the cave floor, plus several enormous (and still forming) stalactites and stalagmites. Walking the steps to and from the cave there is an interesting defensive contrast between an old watchtower, built by the Knights Hospitaller, and its near neighbour, a concrete ‘pillbox’ built during World War 2.

 

Knights Hospitaller Watchtower and WW2 Pillbox (above)

The main site of subterranean interest on Malta is, of course, the famous Hypogeum (Ħal Saflieni). I remember my grandmother telling me about this – maybe it appealed to her Irish roots, thinking of similar sites such as Newgrange – because Malta’s Hypogeum is a complex underground burial chamber, or a temple to the dead, its layout reminiscent of the nearby Tarxien Temples. Its construction spanning three distinct phases during the long period between c.3600-2500 BC. The site was discovered in 1899 and first investigated by a Jesuit priest, Father Manwel Magri, but unfortunately his notes regarding his exploratory excavations have since been lost, consequently little is known about his early antiquarian investigations. Temi Zammit began a systematic study of the site in 1910, and he estimated that over its 1000 year period of continuous use the site may have held the mortal remains of around 7000 individuals.

 

Temi Zammit

In order not to upset the environmental preservation of the site, particularly in terms of maintaining its levels of humidity, visitor numbers are carefully regulated. Consequently, it is only possible to visit the site as part of a pre-booked tour. When I decided to go to Malta all of these tours were already fully booked, but I’d read that it was possible to buy tickets the day before for one particular day a week, so I decided to chance my luck and see if I could get one of these tickets. The staff at the museum which sold the tickets advised me to get there early on the day the tickets go on sale because there’s always a long queue. They weren’t kidding either. They said I should get there around 8am, so I got there around 7:30am and there were already 12 people in front of me and 6 more arrived straight on my heels! And the queue continued to lengthen while I waited. I’d been told that there were only 20 tickets for sale, hence it was hard not to speculate how many tickets the persons in front of me might be hoping to purchase. I felt sure most of those in front of me would be buying multiple tickets for friends and family who might not have come with them, plus I thought a couple of people near the front looked like local tour guides or perhaps ticket touts. Of course, there was nothing to stop the first person in the queue purchasing the lot outright. But doubts and uncertainties aside, all I could do was to wait and see and hope the gods of old might favour me with a stroke of luck – and favour me they did. When the place opened at 9am, everyone ahead of me watched as shuffling forward we saw those at the front of the queue leaving triumphant with tickets in hand, but there was no way to know how many they’d bought. As I got closer and closer to the ticket counter I could see people were beginning to leave with disappointed faces and empty hands. But it seemed as though the tickets hadn’t run out yet, and it was only when I got to the ticket counter that I discovered why – there was only a single ticket left. Everyone ahead of me was looking for a pair of tickets or multiples of two. For once, somewhat uncharacteristically, the lonesome traveller was at an advantage. I found out the next day when I arrived at the Hypogeum that the chap at the front of the queue had just bought one ticket for himself and this had thrown the whole system and so secured me my precious ticket.

 

Hypogeum (Heritage Malta)

I was really glad to get that ticket too, because the Hypogeum is well worth the visit and it would be a real shame to go to Malta and not see this singular and remarkable prehistoric site. Here’s what I wrote in my travel diary at the time: “The Hypogeum is truly amazing. A short film at the start explains its discovery and excavation. Amazing to think this place was found under what was already quite an urban area – hence who knows what might lie as yet undiscovered beneath our feet elsewhere. The chambers are actually smaller than the photographs of them I’d seen make them appear, but this is mainly because there’s nothing in any of these photos to give an idea of scale. Nevertheless, they are still an astonishing sight. I was most taken by the remnant drill marks in one of the chambers and by the ceilings of two others which are painted with vivid red ochre spirals. Absolutely fascinating. The main chamber and the ‘Holy of Holies’, of course, are stunningly beautiful and fantastically symmetrical. I was struck by one small passing comment on the film commentary – apparently no evidence of soot was found anywhere inside, so how were the subterranean chambers lit during both construction and use?”

 

The Tarxien Temples



From 1915-1919 the nearby Tarxien Temples were also excavated by Temi Zammit. There are four temples here, similarly dating to c.3600-2500 BC, and they must have been utilised by a substantial sized Neolithic community. Once the temples fell out of use the site has evidence of later activity during the Bronze Age and Roman period, as well as during medieval times, after which the site was lost until its rediscovery in the twentieth century. Many important finds have been made here, particularly in terms of monumental sculptures. Spiral motifs can be found here similar to those of the ochre-etched spiral designs on the roof of the Hypogeum. I noted that many of the snail shells I came across on Malta had similar spiral markings decorating their whorled shells, and so I couldn’t help wondering if these motifs might have been inspired from such observations derived from the natural world surrounding these sites.

 


Tarxien is possibly the key site for archaeologists wishing to understand the Neolithic period on Malta, but it is not the most picturesque of Malta’s Neolithic sites. Hence, a visit to Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim is essential. These two sites are located very close to one another on the coast, far from any modern urban encroachment. The two sites are now each covered by huge sail-like canopies which were built primarily to protect these important sites from the elements, but they also protect the visitor from the full force of the sun too, making it much more pleasant to wander round and explore at leisure. And I don’t think it detracts from an appreciation of the site’s natural setting because after all when the temples were first constructed they would have had their own stone-corbelled rooves, hence you do get some suggestion of them as enclosed spaces.

 

Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim

The temples consist of a series of rooms with rounded interiors connected by passageways. The walls are made of large upright limestone blocks, and some areas are still paved. There are niches, benches and ‘altars.’ Several of these yellow limestone megalithic slabs are stippled with a pecked honeycomb-like decoration. And some of the stones might have been configured to certain celestial alignments, although many of these assertions have yet to be definitively explained or actually demonstrated. A lot of prehistoric archaeology is speculative due to the nature of there being no written records to help explain or corroborate the design and original function of such sites and how these factors changed, evolved or were adapted over time. Systems of knowledge at this time are largely a mystery to us as modern interpreters, all we have to work with are the sites themselves and the material finds discovered within them – such as fragments of pottery, sculptures, remnants of food and fire use, tools, etc. But looking at the spatiality of such sites and speculating as to how they related to the surrounding landscape as it may have been at the time of construction, as well as factors relating to the climate, possible population densities, and the like are all things to consider and ponder about. A very interesting paper on these elements by David Turnbull which appeared in the academic journal, Theory, Culture & Society, in 2002, titled: Performance and Narrative, Bodies and Movement in the Construction of Places and Objects, Spaces and Knowledges: The Case of the Maltese Megaliths is well worth a read in this regard.

 

Mnajdra and Ħaġar Qim

Further along the coast heading west, the Dingli Cliffs are a lovely spot to walk and see the sunset. Turning inland, however, there is another site of subterranean interest in the town of Rabat – St. Paul’s catacombs. These are the largest and said to be the most impressive of all Malta’s catacombs. Covering an area of over 2000m² the catacombs date back to the Phoenician period at the earliest, and to the period of Arab rule around 870 AD at the latest, but the heyday of the catacombs was during the Byzantine or Romano-Christian period, 4th-8th century AD. A flight of stone steps takes you down into a wide atrium-like area where you can see two large round ‘agape tables’ carved into the rock, these were designed and used for leaving food offerings to the dead. From this atrium a labyrinth of low and narrow passageways on multiple levels contain many different designs of tombs which have all been cut into the rock. Some of these types are named as follows: ‘loculus’, recessed graves or niches cut into the walls; ‘forma’, or graves cut into the floor; as well as arched recess graves, known as ‘arcosolium’; and ‘window graves’, which are more like small rooms; plus ‘table’ and ‘bench’ graves, which look like stone chests; and the more elaborate ‘baldacchino’ or canopied graves, which look like the stone tombs found in churches, except these are all carved from the natural rock of the catacomb. The whole place is rather reminiscent of the catacombs seen beneath the church in Venice in the film, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade; and like Indy, you can wander around in the almost pitch darkness exploring this sepulchral space – although here the graves are now empty of their ancient bones. When I went down into the catacomb there were hardly any other visitors, and so I wandered at leisure for quite a long time, exploring the length and breadth of the place – never quite sure of how far it would go or if I’d lose my way and not know how to get back to the entrance. But as I wandered, crossing and recrossing my own path, I began to forma a mental picture of the layout in my mind until I felt fairly confident I knew where I was and where certain passages would lead me. It was also a wonderful escape from the intense heat and the bright sunshine of the day outside.

 


St. Paul's Catacombs

Chronologically, the last or most recent of subterranean sites of interest on Malta are the Lascaris War Rooms back in Valletta. These reminded me a little of the Cabinet War Rooms in London which I last visited when I was a child. The Lascaris War Rooms were built to serve a similar purpose too. This was the place where General Eisenhower oversaw the operations of the Allied Forces based in the Mediterranean during the latter part of World War 2, including the invasion of Sicily (which I think my grandfather might have been a part of; he certainly served in Italy later on). A forlorn and somewhat moth-eaten crowd of manikins populate the old bunk room dormitories, the map rooms and radio stations here, lending the place a spooky and surreal aspect as though it were designed to bemuse and befuddle John Steed in an episode of 1960s TV drama, The Avengers. The underground HQ was known to the troops it housed as ‘The Hole’, but it was really named after the knight, Jean Paul de Lascaris Castellar, because the tunnels were originally dug by the knights as living quarters for their galley slaves. After the War these rather dank and musty old tunnels were extended even further, although the works were abandoned before they were completed with much of the excavation equipment simply left behind, hence no one now really knows what the intended purpose for this was, but, had it been finished, it would have been a huge military warren hidden beneath the ancient streets far above.

 

Lascaris War Rooms

Malta is certainly steeped in history. It’s hard to set foot anywhere on Malta without some historical feature from the near or remote past catching your eye. And for the solo traveller it is a wonderfully accessible and easily navigable place to get around. I managed to fill a week with plenty of historical sites, churches and museums – and there were still places I didn’t manage to get to see on Malta, let alone Gozo. It’s definitely a place which I can’t imagine I’d ever get bored of exploring. I’d long wanted to come here, and so, sitting at the airport, waiting to board my flight home, I reflected on the fact that I could now draw a red pencil line through it on my own personal wish list of places to see and visit in my lifetime. It is a place which will linger long in my memory. Maybe one day I will return, but for now – for this history buff, it was the perfect place to have celebrated the personal milestone of achieving my MA in history.


 


 

See more photographs from my trip to Malta here

 

 



References


L. H. Dudley Buxton, Malta: An Anthropogeographical Study, in Geographical Review, Vol. 14, No. 1 (January, 1924), pp. 75-87

Keith Sciberras & David M. Stone, Caravaggio: Art, Knighthood, and Malta (Valetta, Malta: Midsea Books Ltd., 2006)

David Turnbull, Performance and Narrative, Bodies and Movement in the Construction of Places and Objects, Spaces and Knowledges: The Case of the Maltese Megaliths, in Theory, Culture & Society, Vol. 19, No. 5/6 (2002), pp. 125-143






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15 September 2021

100 Views of Mount Fuji

 

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 Art 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 – ‘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'


Walking the Tokaido

The Dancing Girl of Izu

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