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 copies to choose from, the selection process can sometimes be difficult because the variations are minute. On the other hand, if there is only one copy to look at, comparison is irrelevant. Making an effort to look at prints in galleries and museums adds to one's knowledge and helps develop an eye for knowing what is excellent and what is mediocre. It is important for a budding collector to find a gallery with a good reputation for handling fine work, one whose taste in artists corresponds to that of the collector, and one whose staff is willing to be an educational source as well. There is no substitute for putting in the time simply to "look."
In addition to the works that are strictly numbered in the "limited edition" series, one may come across another notation at the bottom of a print, A.P. or AP for artist proof or E.A. for épreuve d'artiste. Originally the term artist proof simply meant a test or trial proof of the different stages in the printing process. Later it came to be called a bon à tirer, the artist's notation on the final proof indicating that the printer could then proceed, using that particular proof as the standard for printing the entire edition.
Nowadays the term has evolved to mean that artists by convention are allowed to make ten percent of their edition in the artist-proof category. Some artists number their proofs, as in A.P. 2/5, some use Roman numerals to indicate proofs, but there is no fixed rule. Some artists simply write A.P.
In general, the idea of artist proofs has some merit. The artist has A.P.'s to use as entries in biennials or for other exhibition purposes, to give as gifts, or for a reciprocal exchange with other artists. The temptation to abuse this system exists, however. There are a few artists who, upon discovering that a particular print has been wildly popular, will continue to make A.P.'s for the market as long as the demand lasts. Fortunately this is not a common practice among Japanese artists, but people who are interested in collecting should be aware of it. We find that we look at A.P.'s with a gimlet eye since we view the practice as a basically reprehensible one. Collectors who pay for a limited-edition, numbered print should not have their investment diluted by a plethora of A.P.'s manufactured by the occasional greedy and unscrupulous artist. As a result of this feeling, our gallery policy has been not to traffic in artist proofs at all.
As collectors we must confess that we have occasionally bought an A.P. because we loved the particular print and could not pass it by. Usually this has happened with the older prints of the sōsaku-hanga era, when the editions were quite small. As owners, however, we do not sell artist proofs in our galleries.
Along with the edition number at the bottom of the print, one is also likely to find the title and the artist's signature. One cannot generalize about these, however. Sometimes prints are not titled at all; some artists sign their name at the bottom but others use their personal seals; other artists do both, sign and chop.
Generally speaking, the edition number, title, and artist's signature are written in pencil at the bottom of the print. Why pencil? In the case of original prints, it seems to be the tradition worldwide but, of course, there are exceptions. We clearly remember that in the early days Saito Kiyoshi often signed his name in white ink on the image itself.
Another question often asked is why so many Japanese artists title their works in English. (We have noticed that those artists who have studied at the famous French ateliers also like to title their prints in French.) One immediate thought is that perhaps they feel it is exotic or chic. But the answer is more fundamental than that.
The first audience to recognize, love, and appreciate the artistry of Japanese prints has always been foreigners. The Japanese never considered their early ukiyo-e prints as "art." Only when the
Impressionists found them a source of inspiration, when Dutch, German, and French collectors began to lavish praise and actually buy them, and when the Americans began to collect seriously for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts did the Japanese begin to pay attention to their own prints.
The reason contemporary prints are almost always titled in Roman letters is related to this phenomenon, and history, not surprisingly, is repeating itself. It is a fact that again today it is foreigners—most galleries would estimate approximately
