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      Onchi started with a pencil sketch of his basic design. The sketch, same size as the finished print, was a composition based on four different forms and a natural leaf. Having finished his design, he cut the four forms from waxed paper which he had carefully saved from the wrapping around cigarette cartons (Onchi was an inveterate saver, couldn't bear to throw anything away). The accompanying diagram shows these forms in proportionate size and numbered in the order in which he printed with them.

      His fifth "block" was a natural leaf from a yuzuriha tree. These glossy leaves are often used with oranges and white paper to decorate doorways at New Year's time, and when this attractively worm-eaten specimen had appeared some prior New Year, Onchi had spotted it and added it to his hoard. In order to print from it he glued it to a thin board only a little larger than the leaf.

      When he was ready to print, Onchi placed his sketch underneath a piece of clear glass so that the design showed through to give him a "map." Taking waxed-paper form number 1, he brushed ink on it, putting most of the ink close to the edge of the paper. For his ink he used regular sumi, adding a little vegetable mucilage called nori. He placed the paper form on the glass, matching its position with the design beneath and with the inked side down against the glass. Then he took the paper which he wanted to print and laid it on the glass over the waxed-paper form. Since he had no Kento, to position his paper he matched the corners with those of the sketch beneath. Finally he took his baren and rubbed the back of his paper just as though he were printing from a wood block. The ink, pressed between the glass and the impermeable waxed-paper form, oozed out around the edges of the form, and as it did so it printed on the paper above. Because Onchi printed on a fairly hard-surfaced, non-absorbent paper called Kyokushi, the pattern of the irregular ooze was in some places quite wide.

      That much done, Onchi removed the waxed-paper form, wiped the glass clean, applied some more ink to the same form, placed it about an inch lower than he had the first time, and repeated the process.

      Then he used form number 2 in the same manner, printing with it in three different positions. Form number 3 he used once, and with it he introduced his only color other than black, a golden tan in a water-color paint. Form number 4, the small triangle, was printed three times with ink much blacker than that used on the bigger forms.

      Last of all came the leaf, mounted on its small board. Onchi removed the glass because the board might skid on it, and positioned this block directly on the design, leaf up. Jet-black ink was brushed on the leaf, and then he placed his paper down on top of it as though it were a wood block, again matching corners with the sketch in lieu of a Kento and printing with his baren in normal fashion.

      If the finished print passed his critical inspection, Onchi stamped his name (here spelled Onzi—he made no virtue of consistency in spelling his own name in Roman letters) in the lower right corner (it can be seen in the reproduction just under the stem), and the work was complete. It is safe to say that it had been work undertaken in joy, carried through with exuberance, and finished swiftly. He tried to finish a job before the fun went out of it. "I have a good life," he liked to say, "and I want that to show in my work."

      Over a period of a year and a half Onchi made ten copies of this print, and then, although he saved the handsome leaf, he destroyed his paper blocks. This was a large edition for him, because when he had made one print that satisfied him the act of creation was complete, and much as it might exasperate those who tried to collect his prints, he usually felt an overpowering urge to drop the matter there.

      In speaking of the portrait of Sakutaro Hagiwara, Michener has told of the pains that Onchi took to find the right paper. He printed that portrait on four different papers with results ranging from superb to worthless, and it was the paper that told the story. Said Onchi: "I give half the credit for the world-wide fame of ukiyoe color prints to the wonderful hosho and masagami papers on which they were made. For example, it's the paper which is responsible for the sensuous beauty of the women's complexions.''

      For most of his prints Onchi preferred a finely textured, firm but absorbent, white paper called edogawa, but true edogawa hasn't been made since the war, and like many of the other artists he mostly used torinoko.

      Present-day torinoko has been criticized as being a short-lived paper and therefore unsuitable for making prints, but it is popular among the artists nevertheless. In the old days vellum-like torinoko made from the short silky fiber of the gampi plant was one of Japan's most magnificent papers. Unfortunately, gampi grows only wild in the mountains and cannot be cultivated, so that the supply is scarce and the paper made from it is expensive. Moreover, gampi paper is basically unsuited for making prints because it is not absorbent. The paper called torinoko today is an imitation, made from various combinations of mitsumata and pulp. It comes in a number of grades depending on the amount of pulp which has been added, and of course, the more pulp the cheaper the paper. Grades 1 and 2 are usually considered too pure, that is they do not contain enough pulp to give the paper the proper absorbency. Grade 3 is the most popular and grade 4 is also used. Since torinoko is the paper used to face Japanese doors (fusuma), it comes in rolls about six feet by three, so that there is very little limitation on the size of a print. It can also be obtained in sheets. Some of the artists, like Jun'ichiro Sekino, order a specially made torinoko, of a quality particularly adapted to prints.

      Because of Onchi's great range, it is not easy to select a few outstanding prints, but among his portraits one must name Sakutaro Hagiwara (print 10), Shizuya Fujikake, and Impression of a Violinist (frontispiece); in his realistic vein, Among the Rocks (print 9), The Temple of Confucius in Formosa, and Ripples, a study of a Chinese washerwoman; and from his abstract work, Objet Number 2 (print 8), Lyric Number 13: Melancholy of Japan (print 12), Poem Number 8-1: Butterfly (print 13), and Poem Number 22: Leaf and Clouds (print 14).

      It was no mere whim that caused Onchi to name some of his prints "Poems," for, like his friend Hagiwara, Onchi was a poet. Almost every one of his major prints was coupled with a poem, free in form, subtle and allusive, often as abstract as the print it attended.

      Artist and poet, his emotions were close to the surface, and they quickly welled up in bursts of feeling. In his notes he set down how he came to make the tragic mask called Impression of a Violinist (frontispiece). It was 1947 and he had been invited by his good friend William Hartnett to one of the concerts that Hartnett arranged for Occupation audiences. The evening was a triumph for Hartnett because he had been able to persuade Nejiko Suwa, one of Japan's great violinists, to play. Miss Suwa, a proud person and a perfectionist who seldom plays in public because of the impossibly high standards she sets for herself, had suffered in the war, and Onchi felt the undertones as he watched her play to an American audience at a time when Japan's defeat was still fresh. "A harsh electric light showed the strain in her face," he wrote, "and I saw tragedy there. Suddenly my eyes were blurred with tears."

      Though Onchi was easily moved, he usually overflowed with the joy of life. He loved to sing, to others if they'd listen, to himself if they wouldn't. He sang even in his

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