The artists who came to prominent attention over the next two decades, especially internationally, were products of the sōsaku-hanga movement. They will be discussed in some detail later in this book since they were the liberal, imaginative, and indomitable springboard pointing the way for future generations of printmakers.
General Terms
Some of the terminology used in the book probably needs clarification. For example, we speak of "original prints," which seems a contradiction in terms, but the phrase traditionally means work that has been designed and personally executed by the artist on the block or plate to be handprinted. This is different from a "reproduction," which has been manufactured by mechanical or photographic means. Using the word print in a sentence like "I bought a print of the Mona Lisa when I was in Paris" adds to the confusion. The traveler in Paris may indeed have bought a "print," but that is not the sort of print we are referring to in this book. The word print is loosely bandied about, but we are narrowing the definition to mean a work of fine art made in multiple copies, each of which is an original. There is no "original" from which others have been reproduced by an automatic copier or photomechanical process. The print is a distinct and independent art form.
Over the years there have been several international conferences to try to pin down the meaning of the expression "original print." The convention agreed upon is that at the very least the artist must have been the creator of the idea and the executor on the medium used, whether it be wood, metal, stone, or screen, from which the inked image is then transferred to paper. In addition, the prints should be individually numbered and signed by the artist.
In the early days of the creative-print movement in Japan, the artist wished to do everything himself—create the design, execute it on the block, and do the printing as well. But we must remember that at that time, in the early twentieth century, woodblock prints were the primary form of print art in this country, probably because one needed only a small studio and a few tools to carry out the various processes.
Nowadays, with a preponderance of silkscreen and lithographic prints, it is an accepted international practice to use a professional printer. This has come to be the case in Japan as well. The average artist's biggest stumbling block in this country is lack of space. It is difficult for an aspiring artist in Tokyo, for example, to be able to afford the astronomical price required to buy or even to rent a small studio in which to house a behemoth of a lithographic press—or even to afford the press itself.
The solution is to use an established atelier operated by skilled, professional printers who are completely in tune with the artists for whom they work. An artist often collaborates with only one printer, who understands his special requirements. The printer must have a rapport with the artist so that he can contribute the experience, knowledge, technical expertise, and especially the quality demanded by the artist. Shinoda Toko, for example, has used the same printer, Kimura Kihachi, for thirty years.
There are quite a few professional ateliers in Japan manned by hard-working, conscientious printers who strive for perfection. Their desire to produce work of impeccable quality is part of the Japanese artisan tradition of craftsmanship. Since there are numerous studios, the competition is keen, and artists can shop around until they find the exact one to suit their needs.
The advantages for an artist in having a good printer are many. The most important is that the artist is free to think, to create, to imagine a new work without having to go through the time-consuming process (or drudgery, some would call it) of printing what has already been invented. The printer, who is a professional with a skilled staff, can operate with speed and excellence, printing an entire edition at once and greatly simplifying the life of the art dealer and the public as well, both of whom are waiting in the wings for the new masterpiece to be released. This is the scenario for a great number of silkscreen and lithographic print artists in producing their works.
On the other hand, Japanese woodblock printmakers, for the most part, still prefer to do their own work right through to the completion of printing. One reason may be that they do not need so much room, since they ink each block by hand and print their works without a large press or a studio space of magnificent size. An equally important consideration might be that they actually enjoy the tactile interaction with the handmade paper and the natural wood, and that the carving and printing processes give both a physical and an emotional pleasure. In addition, some artists like to test the water to see whether or not their new print will be popular and saleable. Woodblock print artists, in particular, have the option of printing just a few copies. There is no need to make the whole edition if the first prints do not have a warm reception. Those artists who use printing ateliers are committed to having their entire editions printed at once. Of course, printing an entire edition can be a disadvantage if, for some reason, the work fails to attract an audience.
This self-printing by woodblock makers is common in Japan, but the complete edition of a print is seldom pulled all at once. The artist gets tired or bored and wants to go on to something new. He keeps a journal, however, in which he lists the title of the print and how many copies he eventually intends to produce. If he sets the total edition number at fifty, for example, perhaps he makes ten at first and then goes on to another work. It may even be a few years before he gets out his old blocks and decides to make another ten copies because he happens to be in the mood to work on that particular print.
This pattern was especially common in the early years of the creative-print movement. The artists were basically interested in creating a print, carving it, and printing just a copy or two to see the various results that could be obtained. Many of the earlier print editions have never been pulled in their entirety.
The older sōsaku-hanga print artists are notoriously the most individualistic of all. Some of them dated their prints the year they first printed them; others dated them the year the block was carved no matter how much later they may have been printed; and still others refused to date their prints at all. There is a lot of work coming up for the art historian fifty years from now!
When we speak of an "edition," we are referring to the total number of prints to be made from a specific image. "Original prints" are in "limited editions," an order indicated on the bottom of the print, as in 32/50, with 50 meaning the size of the entire run and 32 indicating that particular number among the fifty.
People often ask if a lower number is better than a higher one. Our experience has been that there is seldom any difference. First of all, in Japan (and we are speaking in particular about contemporary Japanese prints, in which nothing less than excellent technical execution would even be considered), the editions are relatively small so it is highly unlikely that the block or plate will get worn down and produce an image of a lesser quality.
Secondly, who knows what is first and what is last? We have been present in an artist's studio as he was preparing to number an edition. He had just spread it all out when his telephone rang. When he returned to begin his numbering, he started at the opposite end to that he had originally chosen!
In addition, when there are many stages in the printing of each color, the artist hangs each print up to dry here and there, not necessarily in the order in which he printed them, so there is bound to be some confusion. Some people feel better if they own a #1, and perhaps that magic number will have some commercial value later on. But it does not necessarily indicate the first print produced, nor does it mean that it was the best printing.
The technical standard of printing in the Japanese print world is very high, but when works of art are pulled by hand there are bound to be small variations. That variety is the beauty of a handmade work as opposed to a photocopied reproduction. Sometimes the first few prints pulled seem the best; sometimes the artist does not get into his stride until he has warmed up and made twenty prints or so. But keep in mind that in Japan technical excellence can be taken for granted, so the real criterion is whether or not you like the print. And with copies of the same print, the one you like is the one for you.
An aesthetic evaluation is subjective. If one has a few