Juntoku In

The first test printing on the first print, Tenji Tenno, was done on the same evening that the Showa emperor passed away, back on January 7th 1989. Shortly after that I decided to try making all one hundred prints in the series, and calculated that I should be able to get them all done within a space of ten years. Now after making print number one hundred, as I sit and write this little note, it is the third week of December 1998 - I have completed the series with just a few days to spare! If I had been even one day late with each one, that would have meant more than three months late altogether ...

We end as we began, with an emperor, Juntoku In. Reading about this poet leaves me, as always, mystified about the life those people of old led: he became emperor at 13, wrote this poem at 19, joined his father's rebellion against the Kamakura shogunate at 25, and was then exiled to Sado Island, where he lived until his death at 46. Teika started his series with an Imperial pair - Tenji Tenno and his daughter Jito Tenno. He finished it the same way, with Gotoba In and his son Juntoku In.

I have mixed feelings about having such a nostalgic poem mark the end of my work on this series. Do I feel nostalgic as I stand and look at the hundred prints? Well, there certainly are a lot of memories. In a couple of weeks I will be hanging the entire series up on the wall in the gallery, and as I then walk along the rows of prints I am sure that many of them will remind me of times past, both happy and sad: Himi became a grade one student while I was making this print; Fumi started school while that one was being made; there was the month I got divorced; that print was carved one summer up at Grandad's farm ... the pattern of ten years of my life will be there on the wall for me to read.

For most people, it is perhaps difficult to 'measure' just what they have accomplished with their time; perhaps they work in a large company and papers cross their desk day after day, meetings are held, decisions are made ... But even though this work they do may actually be quite valuable to the company and to society, it is not particularly visible. Years later they might look back and think, 'Just what did I do with all those years ...' In my case however, I am very fortunate in that when I ask this question of myself, it is much easier to answer. One hundred pieces of coloured paper ...

But what an answer! One hundred pieces of paper! Was that any way for a man to spend ten years of his life? Was this really all worth it? That is a very difficult question to answer.

If I were to read about some artist who cut himself off from the world, shutting himself up in a room for ten years to create some wonderful masterpiece, I would think that perhaps he had made a bad bargain. In my case, I tried as much as possible to maintain a normal life - to make this ten-year project an integral part of life with my family and my society. In this I was only partially successful; my decision to remain in Japan to do this work (against the wishes of my then wife) led to the break-up of my marriage, and then later, to separation from my two daughters. But although the integration of work with family life was not possible, I am in no doubt whatsoever about the usefullness of my work to society.

This project has not been supported by a government grant, nor by sponsorship from some large corporation. It was only possible for me to create this large set of prints because members of this society found the work worth supporting. You collectors have answered the question 'Is it worth it?' with a vehement 'Yes!'. Month after month, year after year, you have continued to put bread on my table, in exchange for receiving a small coloured piece of paper.

But although you may not have realized it when you first started collecting these prints, I think you have gradually came to understand that what you were buying was not a woodblock print, not a piece of paper, but a piece of a man - you have bought a 'share' in this man's life ...

I suppose in a sense, this is the same with all parts of society - when I buy bread from Mr. Cho the baker, I am 'buying' a tiny part of his life too. But what do I know of how and why that bread was made, and of how Mr. Cho came to be making it? I know nothing of these things. In my case though, I have felt it vitally important that the collectors come to understand these things, and this is why I have written these little essays with the prints, and why I have sent my newsletter out every few months. And this is the reason why I do not wish to sell prints one by one, for people to hang on their wall and then 'forget', but instead, force the collectors to stay with me for at least a year ... during which time I hope that they can come to understand something of the meaning of this work ... and of my life.

And I guess that is where we arrive at the bottom line - I obviously want to feel that my life has some meaning, and for this ten years at least, I certainly feel that it has. Whether or not it is important to the world that this craft of traditional woodblock printmaking is sustained and appreciated, I do not know. But judging from the reactions of the collectors during this ten years, and going by my own feelings - my feelings of pleasure when I look back at what I have created - it seems that the ten years has been very well spent indeed.

There is no more powerfully felt emotion I can express to you than the thought that I hope that each of you will be able to find as much pleasure and satisfaction in your own life as this project has brought to me during these years.

The final words must be simply these: thank you very much for your encouragement, and your support of my work. Thank you very much indeed.

December 1998