CHAPTER IV

SCULPTURE AND CARVING

Like the sister art of painting, the art of sculpture arose in Japan with the coming of the Buddhist priests from Korea in the sixth century. But though both existed together in the great Buddhist monasteries the latter seemed for the first few hundred years to entirely eclipse the former, for the first great products of Buddhist art in Japan were seen in the figures carved in wood or cast in bronze which adorned the shrines of the temples.

Time, too, has dealt less severely with these relics, or rather, less perishable in their nature, they have been better able to survive the dangers that so often swept away the frailer kakemonos of the painter, and in many of the old temples are preserved the works of these early sculptors. Such statues were rarely or never in stone, but either of wood--which material always seems as plastic as clay in the hands of the Japanese craftsman--or cast in bronze. Why this should have been it is difficult to say. Perhaps the lack of a suitable stone at hand, and the difficulty of transporting large and heavy blocks long distances in a rough and hilly country, had something to do with the matter. In any case, wood and bronze were at first entirely used for the work. Some centuries later a fine grey clay, found at Nara, mixed with vegetable fibre, like the bricks of Egypt, and, like them, hardened without baking, came into use. Another interesting method of working was the covering over with thin lacquer, mixed with powdered bark, a model made of coarse cloth stiffened with glue. Works in both these last styles were frequently gilded or painted.

Arising in India, Buddhist art spread northward with the spread of the creed through China to Korea, and as it went farther north its characteristics were largely altered and moulded by the different types of the northern Buddhists. The Hindu sensitiveness gave place to a Chinese solidity, which, again, was mellowed and softened by the gentler influences of Korea.

The early Buddhist altar-pieces of Japan are marked by a sweet and dignified serenity. Unlike the great Greek sculptures, they do not represent the ideal of the natural human form, but rather endeavour to express in terms of the human form an abstract or spiritual beauty. Their figures are personifications of abstract qualities--Reason, Pity, Charity, Fortitude, Beauty, Divine Love, for the northern Buddhist doctrine was a gentle one; the world was not a hopeless dream, as in the Hindu form, but a storehouse of forms to be idealised.

The temple of Horiuji at Nara, the first Buddhist temple built in Japan, is one of the richest of all in art treasures, and contains many fine examples of the old work. One of the earliest known specimens there is a life-sized seated figure of Kwannon, said to be the work of Prince Shotoku himself, and, in any case, dating from about the end of the sixth century. The figure is nude from the waist upwards, and is modelled with great severity of style, so that the anatomical forms are almost lost; but this, with the simplicity of the drapery, only concentrates the attention on the serene dignity of the expression, and adds to the power and impressiveness of the statue.

During the seventh century there arose at Nara a school of bronze casters, who produced a number of beautiful altar-pieces, more than a hundred of which still exist. They are of small size, varying from six inches to three feet in height, and in delicacy of modelling and elegance of style they far surpass any of the Indian, Chinese, or Korean work. The triumph of the school is seen in a little group of three at Horiuji: a seated Buddha with two standing figures, backed by a richly-wrought folding screen.

It is a beautiful piece of work, the lines graceful and flowing, the modelling subtle and of exquisite finish. Perhaps the finest part of all is the openwork halo, pierced with a floral design, behind the head of the central figure. In its own way this group, executed about 680 A.D., is one of the gems of Japanese art.

Towards the end of the seventh century a wave of Greek feeling, which had slowly spread from India and had produced what was known as the Greco-Buddhist art, reached Japan, and its influence is seen in a certain ampler sense of human dignity and proportion absent in the earlier works. In 695 A.D. an attempt was made to cast three large bronze figures of about twelve feet high, but it was a failure. In 715 A.D., however, Giogi, who ranks among Japan’s greatest sculptors, successfully cast an altarpiece for the temple of Yakushiji, Nara, of even greater dimensions--a trinity of a seated Buddha and two standing figures. In the opinion of many this work represents the culmination of the art of bronze casting in Japan. For largeness of conception, easy grace and elegance of pose, richness and beauty of finish, it has never been surpassed.

[Illustration: COLOSSAL BRONZE IMAGE OF A BODHISATWA (_South Kensington Museum_)]

But a still more astonishing development was yet to come in the colossal bronzes, which exceed in size any other pieces of casting the world has seen. The largest of all, a seated Buddha, is at Nara, and, no less than fifty-three feet in height, is the greatest bronze statue that has ever been cast. A figure of great dignity, it has, however, suffered much by the lapse of years. The head was damaged by an earthquake in 855 A.D., and later by a fire, and was finally replaced by another in the sixteenth century. Much finer as a work of art, though slightly smaller, being forty-nine feet seven inches in height, is the Daibutsu, or Great Buddha, at Kamakura, which is considerably later in date, the best judges placing it at 1252. The seated figure, with hands folded in contemplation, is of almost oppressive dignity and power. The modelling is simple and severe, the drapery hangs in large ample folds, and the face bears an expression of profound and majestic calm. In the history of art we have met such an expression before; there is something akin to it in the strange, inscrutable smile of the Sphinx. But the calm of the Buddha has a deeper and more spiritual quality: it is the calm of perfect knowledge; it speaks of the conquest of human passions and a spiritual peace elevated far above all earthly things.

The statue was originally surrounded by a building fifty yards square, the roof supported by sixty-three massive pillars; but this shelter was swept away by a tidal wave in 1369, and again in 1494. Since the latter date it has not been rebuilt, though the stone foundations may still be seen. In the rather irreverent phrase of the Japanese, the Daibutsu has become a “wet god.”

The process of casting these colossal bronzes is not known in detail. In all probability a full-sized model was first built up, and from it the mould made in several pieces. The Kamakura Daibutsu is formed of sheets of bronze, each cast separately, then brazed together, and finished on the outside with the chisel.

With the decline of this old Buddhist work in bronze appeared another phase of the sculptor’s art, which continued to a much later date, and exhibited a different side of the national character. I refer to the grotesque figures of gods or demons which are so characteristic of early Japanese carving. These vary in size from a few inches to between twenty and thirty feet in height, and are chiefly executed in wood, several pieces being joined together in the larger works.

The most famous exponent of the school was Unkei, who lived at the end of the twelfth, and beginning of the thirteenth century. At the gateway of the temple of To-Dai-ji at Nara stood a pair of Nio, or Temple Guardians--huge figures of sinister aspect and terrific power, hewn out of wood--the one by Unkei, the other by Kwaikei, his contemporary. It is said that after Unkei’s death the king of the nether world objected that, whereas the sculptor had many times endeavoured to depict him, he had never succeeded in doing him justice. Accordingly, Unkei was sent back to the earth that, having seen the god himself, he might carve his portrait faithfully.

Though on a small scale, only standing two and a half feet high, a pair of little wooden demons by Koben, the third son of Unkei, exhibit the same grotesqueness, combined with an almost terrible power. The masterly representation of the straining muscles shows clearly that the Japanese artist could model the human figure realistically when he pleased, and that when he conventionalised he did so knowingly, and for a given purpose, as has been the custom of the decorative artist from time immemorial.

The third phase, which marks the early sculptures, is the series of portrait statues, chiefly carved in wood, and it is curious to know that most of these extremely realistic studies were executed during the highly idealistic Buddhist period. The statues of two saints, for instance, Asanga and Vasubandhu, in Kofukuji, which are said to date from the eighth century, are absolutely realistic in style. The drapery certainly is treated in a broad and simple manner, but the face and expression is obviously a portrait, a study of an individual. Many of these portraits exist, dating chiefly from the eighth to about the thirteenth century, and are all strong and characteristic presentments of actual men--speaking likenesses.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF SENNO RIKIU, CARVED IN WOOD AND LACQUERED (_British Museum_)]

Towards the end of the thirteenth century the sculptor’s art gradually fell into disuse, the traditions of the craft only surviving in the beautiful carving which adorned the temple buildings, but which was looked on not as the work of an artist but merely as that of a carpenter.

The legitimate successor of the old sculptors appeared some hundreds of years later, and not as the maker of colossal images and life-sized portraits, but as the netsuké carver, the greatest master of the art of _multum in parvo_ that the world has seen. In the narrow field of a cubic inch or so the sculptor, for he is no less, combines a largeness of conception with a breadth and vigour of execution which are absolutely astonishing. But there is between the old Buddhist sculptor and the netsuké and okimono carver the same difference which divides the painter of the old classic schools from the more modern exponent of the Ukioyé-Riu--the change from the ideal point of view to the material. The art of the netsuké carver, often bold and vigorous, sometimes elaborately finished, is always frankly realistic.

The netsuké (pronounced netské) is a toggle or button varying in size, but often little larger than a marble. The Japanese gentleman in native costume has no pockets other than his wide sleeves, and so his pipe and tobacco pouch, his inro or medicine-box, and other small objects, are carried slung by a cord to his girdle, like a chatelaine. At the end of the cord was the netsuké, which prevented the objects from slipping to the ground.

It is said that the use of the netsuké dates from the fifteenth century, but the great majority have been made within the last two hundred years. In the opinion of the expert the finest specimens date from the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As the nineteenth century advanced a loss of breadth in the treatment is observable, with a greater elaboration of detail, and this tendency caused the gradual degeneration of the art, until it became little more than a wonderful exhibition of perfect manual skill, lacking the life which breathed in the older work.

The netsuké is made of various materials, of which the two chief are wood and ivory, and is pierced with one or more holes for the passage of the cord. In the eyes of the connoisseur the wooden specimens are generally the most valuable; and justly so, for not only are the Japanese most masterly artists in wood, but the material lends itself to a freer and bolder style of work than the harder and unsympathetic ivory, retaining the slightest impression of the artist’s individuality. Between the two there is much the same difference as between the free and spontaneous clay sketch of the sculptor, recording the very print of his fingers, and the coldly severe and more pretentious marble.

Still, it must be admitted that even in ivory the Japanese carver attained in a wonderful degree the qualities of freshness and ease which we are accustomed to look for only in more ductile materials.

The shape and size of the netsuké is regulated by the purpose for which it is intended. It must be large enough not to slip through the girdle, and we usually find that they range from about the size of a walnut to nearly three times that size. Any excrescences or projections would, of course, be liable to snap off, and so, especially in the older specimens, the outline is generally rounded, and without sharp angles. The holes through which the cord passes are often ingeniously made to form part of the design. The fact that many netsukés were also used as seals, and also that so many early examples are of triangular form, so as to stand firmly on their base, is looked on by some authorities as evidence that the netsuké was evolved from the seal.

Often the wood used was coloured, lacquered, and gilt. Sometimes wood and ivory were combined, often ivory and metal, but almost every material was used on occasion. Porcelain netsukés were not uncommon, and gold, silver, jet, coral, and enamel were all applied to the ornamentation of the netsuké.

The Kagami-buta were buttons of metal with a shank at the back. This was enclosed in a circular hollow dish of ivory or wood, which had a hole in the back through which the cord attached to the shank passed. These examples are often very beautiful, the combination of the metal centre, often chased and adorned with gold and silver, with the plain outer ring of ivory being very pleasing in effect.

The Manju netsuké, a round, flattened disc, so called from its resemblance to a Manju, or rice cake, is another well-known form.

[Illustration: A GROUP OF NETSUKÉS (_British Museum_)]

As to subject, the whole field of Japanese mythology, history, and literature is recorded in their netsuké. Perhaps the finest of all are the miniature representations of the masks used in the No dance--sometimes beautiful, sometimes comical, often grotesque, but always artistic. Then we have the beautifully finished carvings of insects; snakes twisted in lifelike coils; a goose with its bill caught in a closed clam shell, and vainly flapping its wings; fishes, tortoises, mice--all varieties of animal life: it is a veritable illustrated natural history. Then in lifelike groups we have the whole world of legendary folklore laid before us. The Tongue-cut sparrow, Motomoro the peach child, and many other old fairy tales, are here retold; while men and women in all the occupations of their trades and callings give an epitome of contemporary Japanese life.

The names of the famous netsuké carvers are too numerous to record here. One of the most celebrated was Shuzan, who lived early in the eighteenth century, a volume of whose designs was published in 1781.

Of late years, since the use of the netsuké has begun to die out, the carver has turned his attention to okimono--small pieces not pierced for the cord, and intended merely as cabinet ornaments. Many of these little ivories are exquisitely beautiful. European work, even of the best, looks weak and poor beside them; and even the best Chinese carving, though perhaps equally dexterous in manipulation, seems dull and mechanical contrasted with their never-failing fertility of imagination.

[Illustration: Rider on Horseback]