How to live forever, Japan style

You know those “artist names” that get passed down from one generation to the next in Japan? I always assumed those were about art. That the passing of the torch from one generation to the next was about choosing the most gifted artist of the next generation to take their predecessor’s place at the top of the podium.

Turns out, I was wrong. It’s all about living forever.

Exhibit at the Raku Museum in Kyoto — See this place? It’s the Raku Museum in Kyoto. It displays stunning examples of the famous red and/or black pottery that’s been known all over the world for over four hundred years as Raku. The Raku artist name has been handed down for fifteen generations now, and at the museum, each artist’s life’s work is represented by one teabowl. Yes, that’s right. *One teabowl.*

Black Raku tea bowl by Chojiro — This one is by the original guy, Raku I, who was sort of the father of tea ceremony ware. Toyotomi Hideyoshi bestowed the name Raku on the artist Chōjiro in 1584.

Black Raku tea bowl by Sonyu — By the 18th Century, they were up to Raku V. The guy who made this one‘s name was Sōnyū.

Black Raku tea bowl by Ryonyu — And by the 19th Century, a guy named Ryōnyū (Raku IX) was holding down the fort, making teabowls like this.

When you see them like this—one bowl per generation—you can see the differences between them. One has straighter sides, one is more rounded, one has a thinner rim and less of a foot. But when you step back and look at them all together, without reading the tags, they could have all been made by the same man.

And they were.

Because when someone takes on the exalted artist name, his lifetime pledge isn’t to be inspired by his heritage and interpret it in brave new ways. It’s to continue that artist’s work as if he were still alive, with the same glazes, the same clay, the same aesthetic. Fifteen generations of Raku ware looks like the work of one artist who is enjoying a very, very, very, long life. Some might say an unnaturally long life. Sure, the pieces change over time, but in the kind of subtle way that an early Renoir looks different from a late Renoir, but they were both very clearly painted by Renoir.

And it’s not just pottery

You know how kabuki actors in woodblock prints are always making this crazy face?

Tōshūsai Sharaku's ukiyo-e portrait of the actor Ōtani Oniji III woodblock print — Like this guy, in Tōshūsai Sharaku’s *ukiyo-e* portrait of the actor Ōtani Oniji III. That grimace is known as a *mie*, and when the current Ōtani Oniji does it on stage at a crucial juncture of some *kabuki* play, it’s the equivalent of hearing the Stones play the opening chords of “Satisfaction.”

Kabuki poster featuring Ebizo Ichikawa XI — The actor chosen from each generation to assume a famous *kabuki* name is chosen because he can make that face (and perform whatever other signature moves the original actor was famous for). In theory, watching Ebizo Ichikawa XI (the actor featured in this poster) is exactly like seeing the original Ichikawa perform that role in the 1600s.

An artist’s name migrates from body to body, passing from one generation to the next, and each individual agrees to subvert his own individuality in the service of preserving the vision of the original holder of that name. Which raises the question—

Is it still art?

Of course it is. But this is one area where Japanese thinking can be quite different from Western thinking.

Westerners prize individual expression, novelty, and innovation—art that goes where no art has gone before. Anything that too clearly reveals its influences is dismissed as “derivative.” The Japanese, on the other hand, value the thread that runs through the work of one artist to the next, even artists who aren’t related by blood or tradition. Much like the Ise Shrine embodies a very different notion of antiquity, Japanese art prizes the core culture that’s kept alive and vibrant by artists who experiment with influences and expression, but hold fast to the traditions of their medium that haven’t changed for centuries.

But is Japanese art poorer for prizing continuity over the inspired innovations that talented keepers of the Famous Names might have produced had they not pledged to keep the torch of the original artist burning?

All I know is that I’m glad Takashi Nakazato was born the second son in the ceramics family that passes down the name of Taroemon, so he didn’t have to make that choice. The tea bowl in the top photo was made by his elder brother, Taroemon XIII, and it’s a beautiful, classic example of e-karatsu pottery. The pieces on the bottom (from my secrit Japanese pottery hoard) were made by his younger brother Takashi (who is neither blind nor outcast like the potter in The Last Tea Bowl Thief, but has become a renowned potter in his own right, making pieces unlike any other in Japan, before or since).