Not Exactly Black and White: The Japanese Art of Sumi-e

This is an assignment from area studies, which is an interactive lecture series on different aspects of Japanese culture. This is my response to my experience of the art of sumi-e.

Many things in Japan are black and white. I learned in my Behind the Mask course that when several countries sent doctors and search and rescue dogs to assist in the recovery from a major earthquake, the doctors were denied permission to practice on Japanese citizens and the dogs were quarantined for six weeks. This was the protocol for handling foreign doctors and visiting animals; even in the face of a natural disaster, the policy did not change. Because of the tendency of the Japanese to stick to rules over considering specifics, it has become to be known as a form-centered country, where outward appearance and obedience is more important that skill and good intentions. Yet, perhaps this very idea of a formal Japan is the reason why the art of sumi-e, or ink painting, has developed the reputation for being exceptionally expressive. I was eager to make and attempt at sumi-e to discover how artists incorporate themselves into this traditional art.

We all sat on our feet around the room in the EAC in silence as we grinded the sumi, or ink, on the suzuri, or ink stone. According to our teacher, Michael Hofmann, our posture was important in order to channel our energy, so we tried hard to sit up straight and breathe from our centers. The ink, made from the soot of pine trees is slightly scented, partly because grinding one’s ink is supposed to be dealt with as an experience within itself. Sumi-e ink is made of carbon, which, because of certain chemical elements, lasts much longer than do many of the other common mediums used in art, such as watercolors, oil paints, and acrylics. After grinding our ink, we dipped our fude, or brushes, into a glass of water, mixing it with some ink in a separate dish to keep the ink completely black and the water completely clear. Michael explained that keeping each as pure as possible allows an artist to keep a large spectrum of shades with which to work. The various shades of the ink must represent all of the real-life colors that the artist is trying to reproduce. Michael explained that sumi-e is not like many forms of art, because once the brush touches the paper, you cannot hesitate, even for a second, or else the wet ink will pool, ruining the painting. In fact, Michael said his best paintings are the ones that he paints the most quickly. He calls these zenga, literally Zen paintings, because the painting is to be driven by Zen, itself. Michael considers himself a vehicle for what he describes as the Zen energy, which he attempts to channel through his breathing techniques and focus and through releasing his own control. He explained that through this focus and release, the Zen is able to be channeled through him and out onto the paper. Although I am not sure whether or not it was because of my own attempt surrender my control over the brush, I managed to paint better than I ever had before.

Although we used only the black ink and white paper, Hofmann sometimes grinds up rocks and uses them to add coloring to his paintings. In addition, when he is finished with a painting, he uses a honko, or stamp, dipped in a red sticky substance to mark his painting, and then sends many of them on to a Zen master who adds a poem as well as his own stamp. Often, the artist or his teacher will carve his own stamp, sometimes elaborately, into stone. Yet for someone just starting out, an eraser or block of soap can be used. Though some of us were disappointed with our efforts, Michael explained that beginning sumi-e students would study bamboo, and only bamboo for as least a year. Even though sumi-e requires very few materials and only one shade of ink, there are many technical skills that take years to master, including the angle and wetness of the brush, the shade of the ink, the texture of the brush’s bristles, and stroke placement and technique. Yet Michael explained that even if a person has all of the technical skills down, he or she may not yet be able to produce great sumi-e paintings.

One of the critical things about sumi-e, as Michael explained, is learning to paint with feeling. He explained that when his teacher visited his first art exhibition, he claimed that his paintings were no good because they did not come from his heart. Here, I noticed something that seemed strange. Although many of my studies of the Japanese system have suggested that Japanese culture is more centered around form than content, sumi-e places at least equal emphasis on form and content. Michael explained that because each person’s emotion will be reflected in their brushstrokes, each individual’s painting will turn out differently. I found that this was true. When all of the students were done with their paintings, we looked around the room. One student’s painting seemed more curious, another more angry, and another more aged. Yet though the features of the overall painting said one thing, often the brushstrokes had their own messages with various thicknesses and shades. Also, though none of our paintings were the same, nor did they completely resemble Michaels, all were identifiable. I was excited to find a Japanese art that allowed the expression of someone as an individual, yet then I remembered what Michael had said about attempting to let Zen energy guide you. This made me wonder whether channeling Zen caused the art to reflect the personality of the individual or if channeling the same energy meant that even the art of sumi-e is form-centered. I realized that I only knew what Zen meant in my own life and had heard what it meant for Michael, but I did not have a formal definition. I realized that in order to understand more about sumi-e and about Japanese art, and about the arts in general, I needed to learn more about Zen.