phoned my counterpart in the Japanese Consulate General, Kato Koichi, now a well-known Japanese politician and recent chief cabinet secretary, whose response at that time to "Where is Saito Kiyoshi?" was "Who is Saito Kiyoshi?" Never one to give up, I phoned various hotels where Japanese were likely to stay and found him on the third try.
Mary and I quickly organized a large party and presented Saito to the Hong Kong art world. Later, after our transfer to Japan, he was the first artist we contacted, and his personal introduction to other artists, galleries, and personalities in the print world was instrumental in establishing us as serious art lovers and patrons. We have been guests in his home in Kamakura when he lived there, and have also visited him in Aizu Wakamatsu, his old hometown, current residence, and the subject of more than one hundred prints in the Winter in Aizu series. He has literally put the snowy scenes of this northern area on the artistic map. We are always invited to the openings of his many shows in Tokyo and make every effort to attend them all, including one on March 23, 1994, at the Odakyu Department Store Museum, taking place just as we are writing this. (We succumbed yet again and added another Saito to our collection.) During a recent opening of his works at the Odakyu Department Store in Shinjuku, Saito started to speak and suddenly stopped, telling the audience in his charming, unaffected manner, "I don't want to be saying the same old things over and over. Besides, there is someone here who knows more about Japanese prints than all of us." To our great surprise, he asked Norman to speak, the ultimate compliment from the master.
And so we begin with "Then" and Saito Kiyoshi, at a time when each purchase was a major decision, whose memory brings to mind an entire gamut of emotions and experiences that seems real even today. In those days Saito was often the first Japanese print artist whose work any foreigner might be expected to encounter. His woodblocks were extremely popular with Americans in postwar Japan, and hundreds found loving homes throughout the U.S. He was already famous when we began to collect, so it was not necessary for us to put our aesthetic feelings on the line by admitting that we loved his work. Everybody loved it. Even Time had used his compositions on two covers, portraits of prime ministers Sato Eisaku and Fukuda Takeo. Many museums collected his prints and he had won international acclaim as the first woodblock artist from Japan to capture a prize in the renowned First Sao Paulo Biennial in 1951. In addition to the technical excellence of the work, we enjoyed the colors, the exotic (to us, as newcomers to Japan) subject matter of haniwa, temple courtyards, and thatched-roof villages in wintry Aizu. Each print left a singular impression. After the fortitude required first to find the gallery and then to allocate the money to buy the print, each succeeding acquisition became gradually easier as our fortunes and sense of direction improved.
Saito's works are widely imitated, but to the aware art lover there is never any confusion as to the real thing. No one else uses those specific colors and no one else's work can convey that certain essentially Japanese predilection for texture, simplicity, and pattern epitomized in Saito's works.
Plate 2
Maiko, Kyoto (S) is an almost erotic composition showing the back view of a maiko (apprentice geisha) with the nape of her neck exposed, which is considered quite sensual in Japan. Saito has depicted her from an unusual angle, getting right to the heart (or neck) of the matter. Her kimono and patterned obi, in which the natural grain of the woodblock has been used to provide texture, are striking. With the understatement that characterizes Japanese prints, Saito has conjured up the entire geisha mystique simply by using four dabs of color—one of brilliant red and three of terracotta—to suggest the maiko's decorative hair ornaments. In the same terra-cotta hue, he depicts the neckline of the kimono from an unusual perspective, stirring the imagination and heightening the sensuality of the maiko. The beautiful face is not revealed, but is saved for one's imagination. Being able to own and repeatedly look at this print enabled us gradually to come to some understanding of the Japanese appreciation for what is unstated but implied.
Plate 3
In those days of collecting and searching for the "real Japan," Sekino Jun'ichiro seemed a likely artist to pursue. His vignettes of tranquil Kyoto courtyards, undulating tile roofs, and scenic villages presented glimpses of such irresistible charm that one suspected the artist of making them all up. The joy of discovering that the subject was a real place that could actually be visited was a delight almost as great as finding the print itself. Keio Hyakka-en (a place name) is such a print. Who could imagine that this idyllic vista of floral beauty, with its field of luxuriant irises, was not just in the artist's mind but was actually viewable if one got off the train at Keio Tamagawa Station in the suburbs of Tokyo. Now it is slightly annoying to find that recent compositions by other artists are often imaginary, but then it was different.
I am reminded of an incident that occurred many years after our collection had developed to significant proportions. Although we owned several of Sekino's landscapes, we had neglected a very important aspect of his oeuvre—his skill in portraiture. His depictions of Bunraku and Kabuki actors as well as other famous figures from the art world are well known. One particular portrait haunted us. We had never seen the actual print, but it kept appearing regularly in books, magazines, and catalogues. It was also featured prominently in Oliver Statler's book Modern Japanese Prints: An Art Reborn, an invaluable tool to anyone who is at all interested in the early days of the sōsaku-hanga movement. This trailblazing book was published in 1959 and reprinted numerous times by the same Tuttle Publishing Company involved in this work. Nine years later James Michener wrote The Modern Japanese Print: An Appreciation, also published by Tuttle. These two books were the first important works in English on the early Modern print artists and were the proverbial Bibles in our quest for prints. Even now hardly a day goes by when we do not cite them as references.
The Sekino print mentioned above, Kichiemon, Kabuki Actor, appeared in 1947. In those days immediately following the war, the creative-print movement itself was in its infancy, paper was scarce, editions were hardly ever pulled in their entirety, and records were sketchy. I despaired of ever finding and owning a copy of this print.
Then one day we were invited to a major retrospective of Sekino's work at the Central Museum Gallery on the Ginza. We all know that hope springs eternal, especially to collectors, and so it was with high spirits that we looked forward to the show. Mary, our gallery manager, Nagao Eiji, and I, converging from different quarters at the agreed hour, planned to meet at the Central Museum Gallery at five o'clock. Eiji and I, having finished our respective appointments early, used the time to drop in at the Yoseido Gallery, for us at that time the main source of sōsaku-hanga prints. I inquired in passing, not really expecting an answer, about Sekino's works. The gallery staff had, of course, also been invited to the retrospective and knew of the interest that such an event would engender. "Why, yes," they said, "we do have something that you might be interested in." Out came the portrait of Kichiemon. I still savor the moment.
But there was a catch to this story. The price they quoted was enough to stop even the most dedicated and well-heeled collector in his tracks. The gallery kindly agreed to hold the print overnight. Even they knew that the price required a bit of further consideration and that the print certainly was at the acme of saleability with the retrospective show occurring just down the street.
At five o'clock Eiji and I met Mary at the opening, got in line, congratulated the artist, listened to the speeches, and drank the toast. Then while others dug into the lavish buffet that usually accompanies such openings, our little threesome scurried around the show, scanning every piece and especially checking the tags. Considering the status and reputation of the artist, prices were not too high, though certainly not inexpensive. Kichiemon's portrait was not there. I felt it, of course, poignantly beckoning from the "hold drawer" at the Yoseido Gallery, so I knew it was safe at least overnight. We almost decided on several other works to buy, but before that were able to speak with Sekino and ask about the prints in the show. Smoothly (or so I thought) I inquired about his portrait of Kichiemon. "Oh, I think that was one of my very best works," said Sekino. "Of course, it's gone now, but if you ever find one you should have it at any price."
