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      The Japanese artist even dallied a while with the European style of woodcuts made from blocks cut across the grain, but speedily reverted to blocks cut along the grain in traditional ukiyoe style. As can be seen from the accompanying sketch, blocks cut across the grain are restricted in size to the rectangle which can be cut within the circumference of the trunk, while a block cut along the grain can be as wide as the full diameter of the trunk and, within reason, as long as the artist wishes. Furthermore, the use of the long grain of the wood as an element of the design was an inherent feature of the medium and too much in the Japanese tradition to be cast aside. Now only a handful of Japanese artists ever carve a block cut across the grain, a process they call wood engraving: Un'ichi Hiratsuka and Jun'ichiro Sekino, for example, sometimes use this technique to make book illustrations, as Thomas Bewick did in England. Today the whole problem seems a little dated, for the advent of plywood veneer has made possible larger (and cheaper, and easier to work) blocks than ever before, and most of the creative-print artists use plywood for their blocks.

      From its beginnings in the first decade of this century the new creative-print movement rapidly gained momentum, and though the rest of the Japanese art world chose to ignore it, it began to attract serious attention abroad. In the 1930's a number of full-scale exhibitions went to Europe and America, but of course World War II put an end to that.

      After the war the artists began the battle to re-establish themselves. In one way the fight was easier, for now the country was flooded with foreigners, and foreigners have always been the most enthusiastic champions of Japanese prints. Anyone who wonders why this is true must realize that traditional ukiyoe was a "popular art." It was mass-produced to sell. To sell it had to catch the public fancy—and it did, blazoning the celebrated figures and foibles of its day. It was cheap and democratic. Such a "popular art" always carries a stigma in its own country. Foreigners, untroubled by background associations, see it fresh and on its own merits, but it is only natural that many art-conscious Japanese, intensely proud of their nation's painting and sculpture, should regard ukiyoe as something on the outer fringe of artistic respectability.

      Since "ukiyoe" and "prints" are popularly synonymous in Japan, the whole medium falls under the same shadow. And if the towering achievements of traditional ukiyoe are regarded with scepticism, so much the worse for a group of modern mavericks who perversely choose the same medium. Here is the ironic twist, for creative prints are not a "popular art" at all. Behind these new prints there is an entirely different urge—the conscious desire of an artist to create a work of art. The creative-print artist uses the technique of the woodprint not as a means to achieve multiple copies of a picture but as a means to create a picture.

      This is the answer to the inevitable question: why do these modern artists feel it necessary to carve their own blocks when artisans might have more skill with a chisel, and to print their own pictures when other artisans might do a cleaner job?

      The creative-print artist really creates his picture as he works with his wood, his chisels, and his colors. The method varies with each artist and often from print to print. He may work from a fairly complete sketch, a rough sketch, or no sketch at all, but the real act of design starts when he goes to work with block and knife, guided by his inner conception, and with full appreciation for the personality of his materials and his tools. This is a process of creation which he feels he cannot delegate.

      There is another difference between traditional ukiyoe and modern creative prints which should be pointed out: the creative prints are not exclusively woodcuts. The Japanese have a generic term, hanga, which is defined as a picture made with a block. By Japanese usage this definition includes etchings, lithographs, mimeographs, and similar forms as well as woodblock prints. Furthermore, in making what we commonly call woodblock prints the new artists do not restrict themselves to wood, but also use a variety of materials such as paper, string, and leaves. The creative-print artists prefer to think of their field as hanga, broadly defined, and many of them roam freely among the different techniques.

      One of the most encouraging things about the new prints is that each artist is unique. Traditional ukiyoe artists usually developed in schools, the style of whose members became additionally similar because they used the same artisans. Today each of the creative artists follows his own path. The result is so lively and vigorous that it is sometimes a little difficult to keep up with developments.

      In telling the story of creative prints one cannot avoid emphasizing the difficulties which these artists have had in their own country. Still there have been important exceptions, and one great expert like Shizuya Fujikake, who was the first to write critically of creative prints, goes far to balance the scale. It is worth remembering that there were a few, like this brilliant and beloved dean of ukiyoe scholars, who saw the strong beauty of creative prints before foreigners pointed it out. Dr. Fujikake has never wavered. "Creative hanga is postwar Japan's best contribution to the art of the world," he says today. "Generally speaking, Japan's postwar art is not good; the shining exception is creative hanga. Creative hanga is showing the world the good art of contemporary Japan in the same way that traditional ukiyoe showed the good art of an older age."

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       KANAE

       YAMAMOTO

      IN THE EARLY DAYS OF THE CREATIVE-PRINT movement, one figure, Kanae Yamamoto (1882-1946), looms above all the others. He produced not only Japan's first creative prints, but prints whose stature gave the whole movement a solid foundation, and even today look fresh and vital. They have none of the quaintness or mustiness that so often marks pioneer work, and on exhibition they can stand without protestation of historical importance.

      Yamamoto's story properly starts with his grandfather, an attendant to the last of the Tokugawa shoguns, that long line of dictators who ruled Japan from 1603 to 1867 and effectively sealed the country against foreign intercourse for most of that period. It was a regime already weakened by dry rot when Commodore Perry's bold challenge shook it, and within a few years the powerful southwestern clans, rallying under the name of the emperor, toppled it and set up

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