Fujiwara no Mototoshi

For number 99 in the set, we have Fujiwara no Mototoshi, one of the lesser known poets of the 100; one of my books puts it rather delicately '... he himself had no brilliant career ...' His poem is apparently based on a real episode, in which his son's application for a particular post was repeatedly ignored, despite promises to the contrary by the person responsible:

During the years of work on this series, I have on many occasions posed questions to the readers of these little 'notes' that accompany each print. Many people seem to take the questions as 'rhetorical' and don't bother to answer, but others do actually sit down and write a reply to my query - usually using the 'message space' on the Post Office payment slip to do so. Well, this month too I have a small question to ask ...

Each month when making the print, I always end up with a few copies that are spoiled. Perhaps the registration is a bit off, perhaps there are streaks in the colour, or maybe I rubbed the baren in the wrong place - making blots on the paper ... As the final step in making each print, I go through the stack inspecting each one carefully, and pull out any with such defects. In the early years of the project the number of these 'rejects' was quite high, but in recent years it has dropped considerably. I didn't discard the rejects, but just filed them away in a drawer. But now, as I approach the end of the series I have to make a decision: what should I do with them?

We have all heard stories of some famous potter smashing most of his pots on the ground because they didn't meet his high standards, only allowing a few to survive. At first hearing, this sounds quite admirable - that a man should hold himself to such a high standard - but one can also see this as a bit dishonest; those pots that survive are not truly representative of his work. His hands made many different pots, but he is only allowing us to see a false picture of his true abilities.

A different viewpoint on this comes from a story I read written by a man who now lives in America, but who was born in Japan and who was trained as a tategu-shokunin, a sliding door maker. 'At a seminar recently, I made a small shoji. I did not like how the work came out, so I destroyed it immediately after completion. If I were still a shokunin, that act would not be permitted. The shokunin's attitude would not have allowed me to contemplate such action, and the social consciousness would have required me to retain the work in spite of my personal dissatisfaction.'

So we have here three viewpoints on my spoiled prints: 1) to destroy them because they are not good enough; 2) to keep them because they are an honest expression of my abilities; 3) to keep them because society holds me accountable for the work I produce. Which one of these precepts should I follow in this case?

To help confuse the issue for you, let me bring up the example of the original copy of the Shunsho Hyakunin Isshu book that I own. Although the carving work is superb, the printing is less so. Many of the prints are mis-registered, a lot of the colour is weakly applied, and everywhere there are signs that the work was done in a great hurry and quite carelessly. Should those old printers then, have destroyed this book as a 'reject' copy? But if they had, then I would not now be able to enjoy this wonderful object - because even with the poor workmanship, it is truly a beautiful book. Surely, after a couple of hundred years has gone by, even those bad prints in my reject drawer will start to look good ...

Perhaps that is not a fair comparison though; those long-ago printers were actually very skilled craftsmen, capable of very fine work. The reason that they were not allowed to exercise those skills properly was simply one of finances - the publisher wanted that book produced quickly and cheaply, so of course the craftsmen gave him what he wanted. The production of that book was not the production of an 'art' object, it was simple commercial printing: 'Get it done, and get it done quickly!'

In my case, the 'goal' is a bit different - trying to see just how well I can master this craft is one of the main ideas. The idea of having those reject print one day find their way out of that drawer and out into the wide world is not an idea that I find comfortable. Yes, they are an honest expression of my abilities, but with one big difference - they show my past abilities. The 'cutoff line' to decide which prints go out to the collectors and which ones go into that drawer has changed dramatically over the ten years, and in fact, nearly all of the prints that I sent out in the early years would these days be rejected without question. It is embarrasing enough for me to see my 'good' copies from ten years ago - there is no question that I do not want these other prints to ever be seen.

So I guess I know which way I am leaning, and one day in late December, or perhaps in January after the exhibition is over, I think I will gather together all those rejected prints and have a small bonfire in a friend's backyard. I will stand there and watch the smoke float up into the sky, and I think I will have very mixed feelings. Part of me will be offended at this 'waste' ... the social consciousness would have required me to retain the work in spite of my personal dissatisfaction ... but part of me will be pleased that my name will not be attached to such poor quality work.

Aha! That's it then - it's simply David's silly pride that is at stake! He wants people to think that he is such a good craftsman ... Oh, sometimes I think that I think too much ...

So tell me then, what do you think I should do with those prints?

November, 1998

Translation: Haruo Miyata, 1981