Hokusai - l'affolé de son art

If there is anyone out there with an interest in Japanese woodblock prints who has not yet visited the Musée des arts asiatiques Guimet in Paris to see the Hokusai exhibition (which is on until August 4th), then I urge you to rush out and buy a plane ticket this instant. Organised to commemorate the 150th anniversary of diplomatic relations between France and Japan, the exhibition offers a wonderful opportunity to view some of the artist's finest works, including surimono and paintings, and prints from the Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, which are amongst the most well-known of Hokusai's designs. The arrangement and display is excellent of course, as is always the case at the Musée Guimet. If you can't make the exhibition then do try to get your hands on the catalogue, which is selling like hot cakes.

Hokusai wrote, in the postface to One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji, that he was dissatisfied with everything he produced prior to the age of seventy, that at seventy-three he had begun to grasp the shape and nature of birds, fish and plants, and that by the age of one hundred he would have a positively divine understanding of them, but that he hoped to live well beyond that point to reach the stage where every dot and line issued from his brush would come alive. If there is one thing that is certain when viewing Hokusai's many works, from all points in his career, it is that they are imbued with such life. Hokusai's constant striving towards perfection and a greater, even spiritual, understanding of his subjects has left us with some of the finest works of art ever to have been created. He truly was an old man mad about art, and I am truly mad about him.

A passion for prints...

I was fifteen years old when I first encountered a Japanese woodblock print. It wasn't an actual print, it was a reproduction of one on the cover of a book... “Utamaro: Colour Prints and Paintings” by Jack Hillier. And I was at least fifteen feet from it at the time. If books had eyes, it would most definitely have been an "eyes met across a crowded room" moment. I was instantly captivated by the striking design, and I had to know who was responsible for it. This event took place in the lobby of a museum, and I was on my way to see an exhibition of Pre-Raphaelite paintings at the time, but I couldn't tell you which paintings were on display because from the moment I saw that print - the design of a woman, set against a yellow ground, applying rouge to her lips, which is still a great favourite of mine - I could think of nothing other than Utamaro.

When I became a student at art college, my art history lecturer took an interest in my overwhelming obsession and suggested that I find someone who could offer guidance. As my copy of Jack Hillier's “Utamaro” was never far from me at the time, she suggested I contact the author via his publisher, Phaidon Press in Oxford. I was sixteen years old at the time, and rather shy, but I wrote the letter and sent it off, and much to my surprise a reply arrived only shortly after, with an invitation to visit.

Jack Hillier, who is sadly no longer with us, was, and still is, such a source of inspiration to me that any explanation of the beginnings and subsequent development of my research is inextricably linked to the history of my relationship with both he and his wife. That one visit resulted in many more, a constant exchange of correspondence, and a very special friendship. I owe Jack and Mary Hillier an incalculable debt of gratitude, for without their support I would still be fumbling around blindly in the dark, trying to find my way, and work on "Utamaro Revealed" would never have commenced, let alone reached the point of completion.

My initial admiration for Japanese prints, and of course those of Utamaro in particular, grew until it became an overwhelming passion... as it still is today.