Japanese Armour

Recently, I attended a 'Japanese Arms and Armour' exhibition at Benalla, in country Victoria; it was a long drive and the exhibition was limited, but the visit was fascinating and well worth the effort. This is the first of several posts showing the exhibition's contents. All photos were taken using a Nikon Coolpix 5400 mounted on a tripod. The gallery staff were obliging enough to let me take the photos, provided I didn't use a flash. Luckily, the lighting was great. I was also fortunate enough to attend on a week day, obviating the need to contend with crowds.

The photo above shows an iron eboshi kabuto (helmet) coated in red lacquer and rising from a four-plate iron hachi (bowl). It dates from the mid-Edo period (1750-1800), but is fashioned in the shape of the Heian period (782-1167) eboshi, worn by courtiers and high-ranking samurai, reminding us that fashion truly is cyclical.

The menpo (face mask) dates from the same period as the kabuto. It is shaped with an open mouth and a horsehair moustache. While it looks like a russet iron surface, the maedate is actually iron covered in lacquer, just like the helmet. The maedate is in the form of a katsumushi (dragonfly). The body of the dragonfly is constructed of brass, while the wings are hinged and detailed with black lacquer. All in all, the piece was well preserved and striking to behold: the katsumushi is particularly engrossing, with exquisite detail.

The katsumushi or tonbo (the name more familiar to modern readers) is a common motif on Japanese arms, armour and clothing. The term means 'invincible insect', and for the bushi it represented courage and perseverance in battle. It is also referred to as the kachimushi, or 'victory insect'. The power of the motif is uniquely reflected in Tonbogiri, the Dragonfly Cutter. Tonbogiri was one of three legendary spears made by the swordsmith Masazane (active during the Muromachi period), and was so named because a dragonfly (perhaps apocryphally) landed on its blade and was instantly cut in two.

Unfortunately, this was the only piece of armour at the exhibition, but a number of swords and associated fittings were also on display. Plenty of photos and information will follow, so I hope you like this sort of thing. Larger versions of the photos are available upon request, provided they are not used for commercial purposes; they make good wallpapers.

I would like to acknowledge the generosity of the members of the Australian Society for the Preservation of Japanese Art Swords, who made their collection available for public viewing. I'd also like to thank the Benalla Gallery, which did a wonderful job of putting these beautiful objects on display.

I'm now on Technorati

This blog business is completely new to me, but I've discovered that exposure is necessary. So now I'm listed on Technorati, which I hope is a good thing...


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Hizakurige

My son and I went for a bike ride today, and I took the opportunity to dash into the local second-hand book store. I purchased several books, pleased with my finds, but I glimpsed something special on the way out: a Tuttle first edition of Hizakurige (膝 栗毛), Ikku Jippensha's (十返舎一九, 1765-1831) classic comedy. It is, ostensibly, a novel about the adventures of two misfits, Yajirobei (彌次郎兵衛) and Kitahachi (喜多八), as they travel on the road from Edo to Kyoto. But it is really a travelogue, composed by Jippensha between 1802 and 1809 as a serial. Thomas Satchell first translated Hizakurige in 1929 as Shank's Mare, and that genuine first edition is apparently quite valuable. As far as I can tell, the 1960 Tuttle edition I now hold, essentially a reprint of Satchell's original translation, is itself quite a find; Amazon reports only three used copies for sale.

I was initially drawn to the book purely by its cover: a wood block print by one M. Kuwata (a Japanese woodblock artist from the 1950s). I was already tempted by the promise of something simultaneously new and antiquarian, but I was sold (or, rather, the book was) when I flipped open the cover to find that this edition was accompanied by the little-known fifth version of Hiroshige's The Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido. The fifty-five full-colour prints (fifty-three stages plus the prologue and epilogue prints) are sprinkled throughout the book. I stood in the bookshop momentarily stunned. In my hand I held two wonders in one volume: a tale of old Japan I'd not read, and a set of nostalgic woodblock prints, admittedly small, by Hiroshige.

As to Jippensha, he was the son of a minor official and worked in administrative posts himself, at least until he turned to literature to earn his livelihood. Apparently, he had little patience for hypocrisy or pomposity, hating priests and contemptuous of swaggering samurai. One wonders how much of the humour in Hizakurige disguises a more sober social commentary. Perhaps ironically, he is buried in the grounds of the Zenryuji, at Asakusa, Tokyo; how it must grate on his spirit. Three years after his death relatives and friends raised a monument to him, with an inscription and a poem. The poem reads:

My allotted span of life has passed;
Oh, give me peace and rest at last!

The companion inscription is particularly apt, and I quote one part:

[T]hings of which people never tire are a bright moonlight night and dinner, to which may be added a book and sake.

Well, Mr Jippensha, I don't have any sake, but I have your book, and methinks it will suffice. Kampai!

What's in a name?

The Bamboo Sword: Hints of kendo, perhaps? Or a derisory reference to all those who pretend at swordsmanship? Neither, actually. It's the title of a short story by Shuhei Fujisawa, printed recently in the collection "The bamboo sword and other samurai tales" by Kodansha International. Fujisawa's story inspired, at least in part, Yoshi Yamada's The Twilight Samurai, which is well worth seeing if you haven't yet seen it. In both the story and the film, the protagonist is so impoverished that he has sold the blade of his katana, replacing it with a bamboo substitute.

'Yes, alright!' you say. 'But why have you chosen it for the title of this site?'

Well, because the idea of a bamboo sword appeals to me. In Yamada's The Twilight Samurai, Seibei is a modest character, contented not by his status as a warrior but by the joy he finds in his two daughters. The bamboo sword symbolises his dedication--a sacrifice made for the love of children--and also his humility, a virtue I respect and aspire to, even if Nietzsche did label it the refuge of the weak. In both Fujisawa's short story and Yamada's film, the bamboo sword is not the handicap one might expect: Seibei is a warrior, and a warrior is not defined by the weapon he wields, but by the mind with which he wields it. In fact, the faux sword is actually a strength, rendering Seibei's opponent Yogo reckless and falsely confident.

One night not too long past, while sharing a meal, my sensei asked me to consider a koan: what is a swordsman without a sword? I hesitated, not wanting to embarass myself. But, while the image of Seibei didn't immediately arise, I like to think he had some hand in prodding the answer from my subconscious. The Bamboo Sword is a nod, then, to Seibei; I hope it does him justice.