ONE LITERARY ESSAY

Translated from Japanese by Kinji Ito

My Bronze Age 

1 

I believe I was around eleven or twelve when I graduated from higher primary school during the Sino-Japanese War, as I had entered ordinary primary school at the age of five.

At the time, it was customary for children to begin school at seven. However, records like the family registries kept by the ward office were notoriously unreliable. If parents wanted to enroll their children early, they could do so regardless of official age requirements. When I was five, my father, Kōun, enrolled me in Neribei Primary School in Shitaya, as though it were a preschool. Looking back, it was common for schools to accept younger children as long as the application claimed they were seven. Such absurdities were widespread, as no formal documentation was required.

So, under these circumstances, I entered primary school at five. As a result, when I graduated from art school, my classmates were always two or three years older than me. Even the age listed on my graduation certificate was two years older than my actual age.

Technically, I should have been over twenty when I graduated, but I was younger. Naturally, the school was concerned about my eligibility for the draft, since I appeared old enough. They told me, “We can submit a postponement notice if you want to delay it, or you can file a petition yourself if you wish to volunteer.” Still, the ward office never contacted me. Had anyone discovered that I had lied about my age, the truth might have come out and my certificate corrected. But despite my worries, I never heard a word from them. It was a relaxed era—one in which your actual age mattered less than your abilities. In other words, it was a time when the boldness of youth still had room to flourish.

I spent eight years in primary school—four at Neribei and four at Shitaya. By the time I reached the age when young people were expected to choose a path in life, my future was already decided. I never struggled with career choices because it was the family tradition that the eldest son would inherit the family trade. From childhood, it was understood that I would become a sculptor. Like everyone around me, I accepted this as natural.

“Everything is yours, even the ashes beneath the stove. In return, you must carry on the family work.” In short, my father imposed the old tradition on me as the eldest son and heir.

My favorite subject was optics. I loved tinkering with glasses, lenses, and similar tools, and I was quite skilled at making microscopes. For some time, I considered applying to a science program at university. But as the years passed, I abandoned that idea, knowing I was destined to be a sculptor. Still, I was raised in an environment where pursuing studies unrelated to the family business was unthinkable. I gradually accepted my path and had no doubts about it, though there were moments when I felt confined by that choice. Sculpting, however, quickly became a genuine passion. In the end, I followed in my father’s footsteps with ease.

As a child, I was drawn to literature—a trait I inherited from my mother’s side of the family. My father, however, despised it. He was a proud artisan and would say, “Artisans don’t need reading and writing; it only gets in the way.” He truly disliked my love of books. He believed that people who became absorbed in reading would neglect their work. While he allowed me to read tales like The Legend of the Eight Samurai (Satomi Hakkenden), he strictly forbade serious literature. In a Hokusai-illustrated edition of this tale, my favorite part was the story of Inuyama Dōsetsu. I read it word for word until I could recite it from memory. I vividly remember how thrilled I was, especially since the story unfolded across the familiar landscape of the Kantō region. I believed it was true.

My father’s disdain for literature persisted until I entered art school. Gradually, his attitude shifted. He must have realized that academic knowledge was essential, and that young people couldn’t succeed without it. Eventually, he stopped criticizing my reading and seemed to recognize that I was becoming more educated and showing the fruits of my studies.

By the time my father came around, I had already read every book in our home—without his knowledge. I devoured novels late into the night, lit only by the dim glow of a small lamp with a chimney. His rule was strict: daytime was for chiseling, not reading. So nighttime was my only chance. When my mother would say, “If you don’t go to bed now, you’ll be sleepy all day tomorrow,” I’d reluctantly blow out the lamp. My secret literary pursuits continued until I entered art school.

*

As I neared graduation from art school, I began writing haiku. One day, I saw an ad for a haiku competition in the Yomiuri Newspaper. I entered—and won first prize. My poem was selected by Kakuta Chikurei, a member of the judging panel. He was a poet, and I believe he’s still alive today. My haiku about cherry blossoms was published in the paper alongside an illustration.

Naturally, my father was surprised. He cheerfully said things like, “You really have literary talent—winning the prize like that!” From then on, he seemed to accept that reading wasn’t so bad after all, and he stopped complaining. In that way, I earned his quiet approval.

Still, I wasn’t serious about haiku—it was just a hobby. As a graduate student at art school, I contributed to literary magazines like Cuckoo (Hototogisu). Around that time, Yosano Tekkan launched a new magazine called Morning Star (Myōjō), and I joined the editorial staff starting with the second or third issue.

2

When I was young, there was no junior high school. Instead, we had preparatory schools for university entrance exams. I enrolled in a preparatory school that offered the artistic training I needed to enter art school. The school I joined was Kaisei Preparatory School, run by alumni of the art school—so naturally, all aspiring art students went there. I also took general education courses. When I graduated, I was still two years younger than my classmates.

*

If I may digress for a moment, I’ve struggled with poor health since childhood. Looking back, my family was so poor that hygiene wasn’t even a consideration. Against great odds, my father eventually established himself. I was constantly ill and prone to convulsions, and I often wondered how I managed to survive.

As a frail child, I was often compelled to take bitter medicine. Even now, the distinctive taste of kiōgan, a traditional herbal remedy, lingers in my memory. I also drank the juice made by mashing yukinoshita leaves (Saxifraga stolonifera), a medicinal plant from the garden, with salt. I enjoyed its taste, and even today, when I see yukinoshita growing, I prepare the same mixture. If I take it before meals, it stimulates my appetite. I love the aroma—and it’s even better when mixed with gin or another spirit.

The only nutritious thing my mother gave me regularly was soup made by boiling dried, shaved bonito with salt. I also ate sake lees, mixed with sugar and soy sauce. That was the most nourishing dish she made. I still can’t believe I survived on so little. I don’t know how I managed to grow up. Having spent my youth in poverty, living mostly on dried sardines, the occasional salted salmon felt like a luxurious feast.

*

When I entered preparatory school, the hardest part was starting classes in the middle of the semester. There was no way around it: elementary school ended in March, while preparatory school began in July. The calendars simply didn’t align. Of all the challenges I faced, algebra was the worst. I hadn’t studied it in elementary school. Geometry was easier since it relied on diagrams, and I grasped it quickly. But I struggled with subjects where letters like A and B suddenly appeared without explanation. To make matters worse, as a child of Edo, I couldn’t understand my rural teacher’s thick accent.

“Arutanokazuga…”

I was completely baffled. What was he saying? I just couldn’t make sense of it. Eventually, I realized he meant, “With a different number…”

Even after several weeks, I still couldn’t understand algebra. With no other option, I turned to my father’s apprentice, Itaya Hazan, who was sculpting and teaching at the preparatory school at the time (he was recently awarded the Order of Culture for his pottery). He was handsome and stylish, often wearing a Genroku-period kimono and striding about like a stage actor. When I studied with him, everything became clearer—algebra suddenly made sense.

“Tell me what you don’t understand,” he said.

Itaya looked at me skeptically when I told him, “I just didn’t get anything when it came to arutanokazuga.” Out of necessity, I studied algebra on my own, relying heavily on the textbook. Algebra aside, I was stunned by the leap in difficulty from elementary to intermediate-level math. Terms like tangent and cotangent were completely beyond me.

Geometry, on the other hand, came naturally. I became quite good at it and even enjoyed it. At the time, analytical geometry wasn’t part of the curriculum, so working with figures alone was fun. Of course, my father still insisted, “Artisans don’t need to study such things.” Regardless, that was my experience at preparatory school.

*

I continued sculpting at home until I was about fourteen or fifteen. Some of the pieces I made back then still surface today. Recently, Mr. Kikuoka Kuri found one of my wood carvings at a secondhand shop in Kamakura and sent it to me. It was engraved with “14 years old.” He shipped it while I was staying in the mountains of Iwate, including a note asking if it was my work. I remembered carving it fifty-five years ago when I saw it.

Mr. Kikuoka asked me to inscribe something on it, and I wrote:

“The green grapes are still green, even after 55 years.”

I began using a chisel around the age of seven. Traditionally, a brush was given to a future painter and a chisel to a future sculptor. Regardless of how the tool was used, this was the customary way to get children accustomed to handling them.

My journey into serious sculpting started once I entered art school, though my father never formally taught me. I suppose he believed the best way to learn was by immersing myself in the atmosphere where the work was being done. Over time, I developed my skills in the company of my father and his dozen or so disciples.

That’s how I spent the next few years while attending preparatory school. I’ve forgotten exactly how long I studied there. Graduating from that special preparatory school meant automatic admission to art school—no entrance exam required, which felt like an entirely different world compared to today’s rigorous exams.

Even after I entered art school, there was little distinction between what I did at school and at home. I hardly felt like I was in school at all. Although my father taught at the same institution, he arranged for me to study under Professor Ishikawa Kōmei, while Professor Okakura Tenshin served as principal.

3

In the first year of art school, we followed an introductory curriculum that included Japanese brushwork, sculpture, and other foundational subjects to build general artistic knowledge.

The goal of that first year was to help students decide on their major. Like all first-year students, I began with Japanese brushwork. My instructors were Kawabata Gyokushō and Hashimoto Gahō. I mostly learned by observing them, so I hardly did any sketching or drawing myself. At the time, memorizing traditional techniques was the primary method of instruction. It wasn’t until much later that I began sketching independently. Still, I believe this was simply a matter of pedagogical emphasis. If one were to debate it, this was just one of many valid approaches to learning.

That said, many people disagreed with this method of teaching Japanese brushwork. Like it or not, we were made to draw only classical subjects to instill the idea that this was the proper way to practice the art. Even our approach to nature was shaped by this philosophy.

Professor Okakura used to say that jumping into sketching too early would make students wild. His advice was simple: “Don’t do it.” He also remarked, “Even in swordsmanship, it’s meaningless to strike out randomly without mastering the form. No matter how well you strike, it’s a loss if you don’t follow proper technique.” Drawing, he once said, was like a game of shōgi (Japanese chess) played on a street bench—one must first learn the standard moves.

My technical progress in brushwork was remarkable—especially in grinding ink, shading, and applying it to canvas—but my paintings themselves lacked vitality.

What’s fascinating is how closely teachers and students worked together in those days. Teachers came to school, created artwork, and even sold their pieces on-site. Students painted alongside their instructors, who were often focused on earning a living. We learned by watching them work.

For instance, Professor Kawabata Gyokushō was often seen counting money in class and negotiating with art brokers.

“It’s 15 ryō.”

“I can only pay 10.”

“Alright, then I’ll draw just three trees. If you pay five more, I’ll add another. What do you think?”

Sure enough, when the extra five ryō was paid, he’d add a mountain or a tree would suddenly appear. However, it was commonly believed that requesting cheaper pieces was better, since adding too many elements could compromise the composition.

Still, Professor Kawabata excelled at spontaneous drawing. His more flamboyant Shijō-style works weren’t as strong, so his impromptu pieces were actually more valuable. Yet, brokers—responding to client demands—preferred elaborate works, which, despite being more expensive, sold better.

Professor Kawabata had no qualms about conducting business in front of his students. After all, we learned by watching him. His teaching style was far from the modern approach, where instructors simply circle the classroom and leave as soon as the session ends. Unlike today’s distant relationships—where teachers show up twice a week to critique work and remain aloof—there was genuine camaraderie between teachers and students back then. This was very much in line with Principal Okakura’s philosophy.

Following this policy, Principal Okakura allowed teachers to create their own artwork during class. Even renowned masters like Professor Araki Jippo and Professor Hashimoto Gahō worked on campus. Though the method may seem old-fashioned, we learned by closely observing them.

The classroom environment resembled that of an apprenticeship. We weren’t explicitly taught how to mix paints or prepare ink—we absorbed these skills naturally.

We often sat beside our teachers, grinding ink and preparing it for use. The ink was dissolved in water in a dish, but a film would form on the surface. If not removed, it would cling to the brush and interfere with smudging, so it had to be cleared. I didn’t understand why until one day, when my teacher asked, “Give me a dish,” and I handed him one. He touched the side of his nose to gather a bit of oil on his finger, then dabbed it onto the dish. The oil pushed the film to the edges, leaving the center clear.

Each time the film reappeared, we started the process anew, and it has remained unchanged. The techniques came to us through immersion in the art school’s environment rather than through formal instruction.

That was the key difference between teaching methods then and now. I’m not sure which is better, but today’s teachers mostly critique and evaluate student work, then leave as quickly as possible. They maintain a distance both on and off campus—even when students visit their homes. Interaction is limited to school hours. In contrast, Professor Okakura ran the school like a large family—an extended artistic household. He worked tirelessly in his office, constantly developing new ideas for the classroom. Students gathered around great artists like Yokoyama Taikan, Shimomura Kanzan, and Hishida Shunsō as they painted. The works they created back then continue to be discussed and debated even today. In fact, the concept of large-scale art largely originated with Professor Okakura.

It was during this time that Hishida Shunsō, then an assistant professor, created his piece Water Mirror (Mizukagami), and Yokoyama Taikan produced Listening Method (Chōhō). The former depicted a beautiful woman from the Tempyō era reflected in the water below. Although I’ve forgotten the title, I recall a painting of a horse standing drowsily beside poppies, evoking a dreamy atmosphere. I believe I was still in art school when Shunsō painted Fallen Leaves (Ochiba) and Cat (Neko). Artists created their masterpieces right at school.

4

After completing my preliminary year at art school, I entered the sculpture department and specialized in carving. It was a transitional period for Japanese sculpture. Up to that point, wood carving had been the standard, and like sketching, we learned by imitating models—essentially reproducing the examples provided. But things began to change as Western techniques were gradually introduced. This shift coincided with Kuroda Seiki’s appointment as an oil painting instructor. He encouraged us to draw from nature.

Yamada Kisai, a prominent sculptor, famously declared, “Even wood carvers must make clay models for their sculptures. Without that, they learn nothing. They must create original works.” His approach—using live human models, what we now call life drawing—was introduced while I was still in school. Although there were senior instructors on staff, it was Yamada Kisai who championed the idea that “wood carvers need clay too.” The problem was, we had no human models. No one was willing to pose.

Speaking of models, there were women we called “Model Madams” who handled recruitment. Madam Miyazaki was a pioneer in the field. She had once modeled exclusively for Kuroda Seiki, but as she aged, she transitioned from model to agent. She traveled far and wide, persuading women to take on modeling work. She sought out beautiful, troubled women and lured them in like a streetwalker enticing a customer, dragging them to the art school. These women were simply told they’d be working at a school, so they had no idea what to expect. They weren’t informed beforehand that they’d be posing nude. They were told students would sketch them with some exposed skin or makeup. But once they arrived, they were told to strip completely. Some were shocked and fled, others cried—it was utter chaos. Eventually, though, they grew accustomed to it, and it became routine.

Oddly enough, there were always plenty of models for the oil painting classes, but none for sculpture. The first model Madam Miyazaki brought to our sculpture class was a rickshaw man—probably around forty, and clearly tricked into coming. He, too, had to strip.

“I’m in good shape,” said the rickshaw man, removing everything but his loincloth.

He did his best. The scene was surreal: well-developed buttocks, thin arms, and calves veined like earthworms. He stood there as we sketched him.

When Professor Yamada entered the room, he barked:

“Hey you! Lose the loincloth!”

“I came here under an agreement with Madam Miyazaki. I won’t do that.”

“Then you’re no model. This won’t do. Take it off! Just strip! If you don’t, you won’t get paid!”

The rickshaw man hesitated but stood firm, negotiating with the professor.

“It’s no big deal. In the West, nudity is normal. What’s strange is wearing a loincloth on campus.”

Professor Yamada finally persuaded him. With resolve, the man declared:

“Time for the unveiling.”

He removed his loincloth and asked:

“How’s this?”

And so, he stood before us, fully nude.

The rickshaw man turned out to be a tremendous asset—our only sculpture model. We treated him well, worried he might not return. “Will he come back tomorrow?” we’d wonder.

To our relief, he kept coming—and became highly sought after. Many professors used him in their work. Professor Naganuma Moriyoshi even sculpted a bronze bust of him with a towel wrapped around his head, which still resides at the art school. Whenever I see it, I remember that negotiation with Professor Yamada. That was near my graduation.

As a wood carver, I began working with live models, sculpting human figures in a similar way. Craftsmen who specialized in plaster casting also came to campus to make copies of our work.

Looking back a few years later, I thought my early pieces were terrible. It’s understandable—our teachers weren’t very skilled, and I was uncomfortable with the models they provided. At first, students made small pieces about two square feet in size, but by the end we were creating life-sized sculptures.

The school supplied clay for all of us, which must have been a financial strain. They sourced it from a wholesale shop that imported clay from Italy.

* 

As my sculptural work progressed, models—including women—began attending class regularly. But when it came to posing, every woman who stepped onto the platform instinctively covered herself. As a result, all the sculptures from that time depicted figures shielding their privates with one hand. None were fully exposed.

Students weren’t allowed to speak to the models. When these twenty-something women entered the classroom nude, we all fell silent. In that setting, the women held the upper hand. They posed however they liked, and we sculpted accordingly. In hindsight, I realize we simply copied what we saw—there was no formal posing. It was a time without professional guidance, when no one truly understood what sculpture was. Looking back now, it seems absurd.

Ultimately, the quality of a piece was judged solely by how closely it resembled the model. We hadn’t yet reached the point of evaluating the artistic merits of the sculptures themselves. A piece was considered superb if it reproduced the model with exact precision. This mindset persisted for a long time, and its influence was still evident around the time of the Bunten exhibition. As long as the sculptures on display appeared lifelike, everyone was satisfied. This was a major reason sculpture remained misunderstood for so long. Later, we criticized that exhibition—this was our central argument. It reflected the curse of the absurd instructional methods we had received in art school. As for the aims of art, although some traditional theories existed, there was nothing meaningful concerning clay, nor was anything clearly defined. Everything revolved around the simple act of replicating models.