I. The Genesis
It was January 10, 1926. My colleagues and I had come through Kii (present Wakayama and southern Mie prefectures) and were planning to spend the night at a temple on Mount Koya. It was there that we began discussing the possibility of a folk art museum, talking excitedly late into the night.
It had taken many years for us to reach this juncture. We were all strongly attracted to beauty, and we all shared the same sense of aesthetic appreciation. In retrospect, it is all too clear how different our preferences were from the majority of people. We often found incomparable beauty in myriad things that had previously been ignored. We often found widely acclaimed artwork to be aesthetically wanting. Inexplicably, what we were strongly drawn to were the utilitarian things that were generally overlooked in the hustle and bustle of daily life. This attraction was not based on some preconceived theory. It was the result of simply looking at things directly, seeing them as they are, an aesthetic stance that was buttressed by the simple process of seeing with one’s own eyes before dissecting with the intellect. We would like, we thought, to share the joy this brought us. Through the medium of everyday objects we would like to tell the story of the now forgotten beauty of the past. In this new realm of art we might be able to accomplish something exceptional. Eventually we came to think of this as a duty and obligation. As a result of this feeling, a thought leaped simultaneously into our minds: ‘Let’s build a museum’.
A similar resolution had led us at an earlier date to build a museum along these lines in Korea. While the Korean venture was on a very small scale, it brought us valuable experience. Feeling inspired, we came to the conclusion that a similar museum should be built in Japan.
As to the museum’s collection, it was to focus on one outstanding genre. In order to speak intelligently of that genre, however, it was necessary to coin a new word. That word was mingei, literally crafts of the masses, or folk crafts. This genre consists of utilitarian handicrafts with close ties to the lives of ordinary people. In bringing handicrafts to the fore, we had no intention of claiming that they were the sole source of beauty in Japanese art. We simply wished to establish the fact that, in this largely ignored field, there was artwork of astounding beauty, and that these utilitarian handicrafts formed, as we felt, the mainstream of all craftwork. The museum would be called the Mingeikan, or Japan Folk Crafts Museum, and would come to represent our destined vocation. We felt that if we failed to undertake this mission, there would be no one else who would do so for the foreseeable future. We became convinced that this undertaking would have immeasurable significance not only for the history of craftware and aesthetics, but also for the future of production. Much like a Buddhist monk who resolves to follow the path of religion, we resolved to devote ourselves to the advancement of folk crafts.
How should we go about this project? How much was it going to cost? How would it be managed? How maintained and sustained? At the time we were too caught up in the project to worry about what lay ahead. While now, in hindsight, it might be said that we started without proper preparation, on the other hand it can be said that what kept us going was our pure-hearted youthful enthusiasm. Without that, we couldn’t have accomplished much at all. Fortunately, our thinking was based on firm principles. We had not the slightest worry about our immediate circumstances. If we ourselves had had the slightest doubt about the future, we would have undoubtedly lost courage.
The work of creating a collection then commenced. As time permitted we spread out over the country in twos and threes, scavenging for suitable objects. This was almost twenty years ago, and so conditions then were very different. Many secondhand shops were unaware of the slang expression getemono, which refers to common everyday utensils – much less the newly coined mingei. The price of such objects was so low that cost was not a consideration.
Wherever we went was virgin territory. We were not sure what we would find there, which redoubled the fun of collecting. Most of what we found was at the bottom of dusty piles. As a result, we learned to our joy that we could buy what we wanted at unbelievably low prices.
Gradually the desire to show our collection to the general public gained strength. On June 22, 1927, we held our first folk crafts exhibition on the top floor of the Kyukyo-do speciality store in Ginza.
Through this exhibition we wanted to display what, to our eyes, was authentic craftware. In many ways this exhibition was the first of its kind. None of the objects bore a signature or seal. They were all the creations of anonymous craftspeople, ordinary craftworkers who had created objects of extraordinary beauty. While none of the works had a price of any significance, they possessed a beauty that was worthy of note. By putting them on display it wasn’t our intention to shock the world; we merely wanted to share the joy we felt in the presence of their beauty.
Ultimately this exhibition can be seen as an attempt to justify these objects in the eyes of a sceptical world, to develop a new avenue of aesthetic appreciation. To a large extent it was an attempt to augment and refine the traditional way of seeing things. Hopefully it would propose a new standard of beauty. It was this wholesome beauty, as we saw it, that we wanted to present to the public.
We came to feel that this was work well worth undertaking, especially for the standardless world of crafts, as well as for art in general. Some people viewed the objects we offered as simple grotesquerie, but we saw them as representing the essential nature of art. They were worthy of our guardianship and advocacy.
We were determined to achieve our goal. We harboured not the slightest doubt that such a museum would be highly significant and of inestimable value. However, many of our ideas never reached fruition, and time marched quietly on.
It was about this time that plans were moving forward for the reconstruction of the Tokyo Imperial Household Museum. Nowadays, famous museums around the world have exhibition rooms devoted to local crafts. It stood to reason that the same should be done in Japan. This was particularly true since Japan was so rich in handicrafts. Surely, sooner or later, the need to exhibit these folk crafts in a museum would come to be felt. This gave rise to one idea in everyone’s mind: why not donate our entire collection to the new museum and have it displayed in two or three rooms? We asked for an interview with the museum’s director to discuss the matter. Whether it was due to the fact that we had not made our plans perfectly clear, whether the museum was already cramped for space, whether the needed funds were unavailable, or whether our collection was thought wanting – in any case, our proposal was not accepted and gradually forgotten. This breakdown in the negotiations, however, had the ironic result of firing us with even greater enthusiasm. With our own hands we would do something of lasting value; we would keep moving tirelessly forward, waiting for the day when our labour would bear fruit. From our meagre funds we kept adding to our collection, a bit at a time.
In the summer of 1929 my friends and I were sitting on Skansen Hill in Sweden, engaged in lively conversation. The Nordic Museum in Stockholm is far and away the world’s most superlative museum devoted to agricultural life. Its numerous structures are overflowing with tens of thousands of collected items. From wood to metal, textiles, and ceramics, the collection is a consummate representation of the beautiful, sensuous objects of the Nordic peoples. The individual rooms are maintained as they originally were, as though they were still being lived in. This institution was first established by the pioneer Artur Hazelius (1833–1901), who devoted his life to realizing the project. He possessed a passionate love for products made by the people’s hands and was determined to preserve and protect them. There were many obstacles to overcome, but in the end his efforts were rewarded. Now his accomplishment comes under the protection of the Swedish government and is much revered. Located in one corner of a small snowbound country, it is an amazing collection, a proud achievement in the eyes of all who see it. Through this collection Sweden has achieved global renown. One of the reasons for our visiting Europe was to call upon this museum.
Should we take this museum as our model? No, definitely not. We had our own path to follow. Still, one result of visiting this astonishing museum was that we experienced a rekindling of passion for our own museum.
Instead of aiming at comprehensiveness, we decided to aim at quality. We decided to strictly select only what was aesthetically the best. This was our mission as Japanese. We should carry out our choice of objects so that nothing could surpass what we had selected, no matter where the collecting was done or by whom. We would openly discuss our standard of judgment. Without a standard, without self-awareness, this work could not be done. We burned with hope and expectation. We would build a folk crafts museum in Japan.
Interest was sparked in society at large by our second exhibition and the coverage of folk craft publications. Here and there people began to pay more attention to what we were collecting. Some laughed and said we were only interested in what was cheap; others said since we were poor in the pocket, we were claiming that the essentially trivial was, in fact, beautiful. Shrewd secondhand shops suddenly saw a future in cheap things and acted accordingly. In particular, the folk art exhibitions sponsored by Yamanaka & Company in Tokyo and Osaka in 1930 fanned the flames. Thereafter department stores joined in with their own exhibits, and soon the word mingei came to be heard on everyone’s lips, even appearing in dictionaries. Opportunity was knocking at our door.
Since resolving to build a folk crafts museum, ten years had flowed by. Looking back, there were a number of miscalculations on our part, but fortunately we were able to retain our faith in the project. Eventually other people also came to see the need for a museum, and our sense of responsibility grew even heavier.
It was then that the most fortunate thing happened. On May 12, 1935, we were visited by the distinguished businessman Magosaburo Ohara (1880–1943), who offered to pay the costs of constructing the museum. It was impossible to find the right words to express our gratitude for his kind generosity. We would now be able to realize our long-held dream. Mr Ohara was widely known for his philanthropic activities. He believed in the work we were doing and even proposed a number of useful suggestions.
Thereafter our little group of believers frequently met to discuss future policy.
First we decided on the site. We contracted for a lot at 861-banchi, Komaba-cho, Meguro-ku, Tokyo, which covered some 1,818 square metres. Next we decided the architectural style, which would be traditional Japanese and make generous use of oya-ishi tuff stone. Construction got under way, and the foundation stone was laid in October 1935. The first stage of construction consisted of erecting the main building with a total floor space of 661.2 square metres. Facing the main building was a ‘long’ stone-roofed gate-cum-residence (nagaya-mon) that had been brought from Tochigi prefecture and reconstructed. Later this became known as the west wing. Still later, plans were drawn up for increasing the number of exhibit rooms as well as for the construction of a library, administration office, lecture hall, workshop, and other facilities. While construction was proceeding, we concentrated on collecting more handicrafts and books in various fields, and were fortunate enough to come by some truly excellent pieces.
On October 13, 1936, the construction work was completed, the collection put in order, the pieces set out for display, and the museum opened to the public. There were six rooms on the first floor of the main building and five on the second floor, as well as three rooms in the west wing, making fourteen in all. The buildings were done in the Japanese style, with lighting provided through papered sliding screens. There were eight alcoves. Given the nature of the museum, the choice of Japanese style over Western seemed the right one.
Almost without us realizing it, ten years passed quickly by, during which time we put up new objects for exhibit four or five times a year and held a number of special exhibitions. Some of the special exhibitions were on such a large scale it would be difficult to re-enact them today, such as the nationwide Japanese folk crafts exhibition, the Korean handicrafts exhibition, the Okinawan handicrafts exhibition, the exhibition of the boldly designed type of Chinese porcelain called akae, and the Ainu handicrafts exhibition. All of these attracted a good deal of positive attention. One more outstanding feature of the museum is the exhibition of newly created works held every spring.
During this time we continued our work in surveying and researching handicrafts throughout the country, finally bringing to an end our far-reaching peregrinations. The general disposition of Japanese handicrafts became clear enough to record on a map. It also became clear through our repeated visits to Okinawa how important this island was to Japanese culture. The items collected there are still an invaluable part of the museum’s collection today.
While the Japan Folk Crafts Museum is a typical small-scale museum, no one can fail to appreciate its outstanding features: the size and richness of its collection, the fact that most of its pieces have never been displayed at any other museum, and the care with which the items for display were chosen.
II. The Work
What, then, were we hoping to achieve by founding this museum? What features would set it off from other museums? What were our ideas, our principles, in undertaking this work? There are many things I would like to say in this regard, but I will pick up only a few.
Over many a year we had searched for a museum that was based on a single aesthetic principle. The closest to this ideal were private museums, among which a number of instances could be cited. With large museums, however, this type of aesthetic consistency is practically infeasible. The reason is that their variegated collections have been built up over the years by a number of different people. Some pieces have been selected because of their beauty, some because they are rare, others because they are famous, still others because of their seal or signature; and finally there are those selected from a historical or archaeological perspective. Since they are chosen for a variety of reasons, it is hard to achieve an organic consistency. Still, such museums serve a purpose if their collections are large enough. The danger is that if there is no recognized standard of beauty, their collected works will become a mishmash of the good and the bad. The museum becomes nothing but a place for display, losing any educational value. Should there perchance exist a museum that has deep insight and a high aesthetic standard, whose collection is properly organized and consistent, that museum would be an artwork in its own right. In that case, its displays would achieve real authority. Through viewing the arrayed works, viewers could gain an insight into the nature of beauty. Unfortunately, this type of museum is extremely rare, and truly excellent pieces are almost never seen. While our museum may be small in scale, it is trying its best to fulfil this need for consistency.
To achieve this goal, the collection and display of older folk craft objects naturally took on great significance. It wasn’t a matter of the old always necessarily being good; it was simply that older pieces represented a greater proportion of well-made objects. Even now there is an extraordinarily large number of old objects that could serve as models of craftsmanship. However, it was never our intention to consider our work over and done with the display of these older works. Rather, that was considered of secondary importance. By telling the story of older works, we could discover the laws of their creation, and this could serve as a basis for newer work. If one were to confine the appreciation of beauty to the past, it would merely be a frivolous diversion. What concerned us most was laying the groundwork for the creation of new handicrafts, including their manufacture and development. Thus we devoted considerable energy to the display of new work that would form the future. The links to the future were more important than the links to the past. The museum must develop strong ties between today and tomorrow. We felt it our mission to introduce to the public both reliable individual artists and the work still being produced in the provinces.
The museum’s principal displays consist of handcrafted objects. When one of the so-called fine arts is chosen for inclusion, emphasis is placed on its handicraft-like beauty. Handicrafts are intimately tied to everyday life. To our way of thinking, beauty has close ties with an object’s inherent beauty as a handicraft. Until now, overriding importance has been given to the fine arts, and the world of handicrafts has been neglected. We strongly believe, however, that handicrafts have enormous significance, both aesthetically and socially. Thus it happens that the museum should make it its main job to collect objects that are aesthetically pleasing as handicrafts. No other museum of this kind exists in Japan.
While there are various types of craftware, we chose to place emphasis on the folk crafts. As I said earlier, folk crafts are handicrafts that are made by anonymous craftspeople and have especially close ties to the everyday life of ordinary people. It is these utilitarian objects that show the highest degree of development as craftware. Among the various types of beauty, we chose to emphasize wholesome, ordinary beauty, and this type of beauty is most often found, we felt, in the folk crafts. While there has always been a tight bond between beauty and everyday life, between beauty and the common people, it has not been fully recognized until now. This is precisely why the fact that our museum is a folk crafts museum is so significant.
It is only natural that a museum should place ultimate value on the beauty of the objects in its collection. The value of an object lies in its beauty; everything else is secondary. It is very much like the value of human life being characterized as being basically good or sacrosanct. In contrast, qualities represented by riches and power are of minor importance. As a result, our exhibitions display only the beautiful, the result of a very strict process of selection. This process is, in fact, one of the museum’s most outstanding features. Strangely enough, no other museum has attempted anything similar.
The museum’s mission is the presentation of a standard of beauty. As mentioned earlier, this standard consists of wholesome, normal beauty. As an ideal of beauty, it is unsurpassable. Thus the job of consistently arranging and organizing the individual pieces in accordance with this standard, as well as the collection as a whole, is of vital importance. It hardly need be said that this standard should not be the result of theoretical cogitation; rather, it should be the outcome of keen intuitive insight. This is what separates folk craft museums from ethnographic museums, since the latter are not based on intuitively perceived beauty. Our museum is not simply a place for putting objects on display.
It follows, then, that the greatest possible care should be taken to arrange objects so as to bring out their inherent beauty. How objects are placed, the shelves on which they rest, background colours, and the introduction of light – all of this has a not inconsiderable impact on how the objects are perceived. The way objects are arrayed is an art in its own right, and I would like to see our museum come to be viewed as a work of art. Ordinary museums can easily become cold, static places where objects are set out to be looked at, which is why I am constantly thinking of how our museum can be made into something that is warm and friendly.
While the Japanese government now and then honours certain extraordinary individuals for their contributions to the nation, the litmus test of a country’s cultural level should be the lives led by ordinary people. This level is most apparent in the utilitarian objects used on a daily basis. It is through such objects that the Japan Folk Crafts Museum seeks to honour the nation’s common citizenry. Here in this museum, more than in any other, the life of ordinary Japanese can be truly seen.
