Ukiyo-e woodblock prints are Japan’s most famous art form, in large part thanks to the Japonisme movement of the late 19th century. However, ukiyo-e did not enjoy the same cultural cachet in its country of origin for much of the 20th century. To Japanese people, woodblock prints were not art, especially given their mass appeal, and were considered more akin to posters or other similar printed material; it is only in the last few decades that ukiyo-e have been re-evaluated and celebrated in Japan.
The world of Japanese woodblock prints is vast, covering all manner of subjects from landscapes and ghosts to cats and coitus. These six iconic ukiyo-e prints below represent the tip of a huge woodblock iceberg. Hopefully, their stories will inspire further journeys down the delightful rabbit hole of ukiyo-e.
Kabuki Actor Ōtani Oniji III as Yakko Edobei by Tōshūsai Sharaku
If there is a Japanese artwork whose fame rivals that of The Great Wave, it must be this 1794 print by Sharaku, depicting the Kabuki actor Ōtani Oniji III in the role of the wicked manservant Yakko Edobei from the play The Coloured Reins of a Loving Wife (Koi nyōbō somewake tazuna). His leering face with red-rimmed eyes has appeared everywhere from posters, book covers, and mugs to advertisements, tourism videos, and restaurant menu designs. (Naturally, it also illustrates the 10-second video of the Kabuki kakegoe, or the “YO sound effect.”)
For the uninitiated, Kabuki is a form of theatre combining dance and drama, derived from the much older Noh theatre. It is not a perfect analogue, but one could think of it as the Japanese equivalent of Shakespeare, since it was very much theatrical entertainment for mass audiences. The plays — which have been performed entirely by adult male actors since 1652 — often drew on legends, historical events, classical stories or popular folklore, and were made ever more dazzling with elaborate costumes and eye-catching makeup.
Despite the renown of this print, Sharaku the woodblock artist has been an enigma for centuries. Various theories have been put forward, but details such as his true name, birthdate, and birthplace ultimately remain unknown. He had a short but prolific career that spanned ten months from May 1794 to February 1795, during which he produced approximately 140 woodblock prints (and a handful of sketches) before disappearing into the annals of history.
Unlike contemporaries like Kitagawa Utamaro, Sharaku did not beautify his subjects. Many of his subjects seem to be mid-gesture, or have been captured in dynamic poses, their facial expressions veering from sly to comically disgruntled. Such unflattering realism was not well-received by the public, which may have played a part in truncating his career. He remains a mystery today, but his iconic prints live on.
Uwaki no sō (The Fickle Type) from “Fujin sōgaku jittai (Ten Physiognomies of Women)” by Kitagawa Utamaro
Utamaro was one of the most successful woodblock artists of his time, and he is perhaps most known for his sensuous bijin-ga, or pictures of beautiful women, series. The practice of identifying and classifying archetypes has been around for probably as long as humanity has, so it’s not surprising that print series performed well with buyers. But what is notable about Utamaro’s bijin-ga is that they represent the first, innovative (for that time period) attempt by a woodblock artist to depict the individuality of his subjects, rather than as idealised visions of femininity. Imagine that.
This particular print is part of a series of “types” of women; the term ‘physiognomy’ refers to contemporary pseudo-scientific practices of understanding personality and destiny through people’s facial features. (Interestingly enough, this apparently also alludes to an earlier erotic book produced by Utamaro and his publisher Tsutaya, which also featured types of faces but also paired them with sexual organs.) Its title is most often translated as “The Fickle Type,” and occasionally “The Flirt.” The print depicts a young woman emerging from the bath, slightly unkempt, her robe half open and exposing her breast. To convey the quality of a woman who is constantly seeking new suitors, she is seen here casting a glance over her shoulder, her alert expression and disregard for her dishevelled appearance marking her out as the “fickle type.”
Under the Wave Off Kanagawa (The Great Wave), from the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, by Hokusai Katsushika
As one of the most recognisable and iconic artworks in the world, The Great Wave has been endlessly referenced and remixed, appearing in media as diverse as Tintin (the French comic) and Cookie Monster memes. Much has been written about its impact and significance, including on this website, so I shall not repeat all of it here — suffice to say that it continues to be a touchstone for Japanese art and culture at large.
I recently learned that Hokusai created The Great Wave in 1831 at the age of 72 after a lifetime of prolific painting and drafting, and that he had produced iterations of it throughout his life. Above are the four versions that were painted over a period of 40 years, each one successively bolder and more dynamic, the human presence shrinking in the presence of the overwhelming, powerful waves.
Hokusai’s growth as an artist over his life is evident in these works. It is heartening to be reminded that genius is not instant — rather, it blooms after a lifetime of practice and showing up, the rewards of which are infinitely sweeter than generating an image with a click.
South Wind, Clear Sky (Red Fuji), from the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, by Hokusai Katsushika
If The Great Wave diminishes its purported subject — Mt.Fuji — to a distant snow-capped cone, the sacred mountain is unmistakably front and centre in this print by Hokusai, taken from the same series of large-format landscape prints. In contrast to usual blue-hued renditions, Mt. Fuji here is dyed a striking red; the mountain apparently takes on a reddish hue in late summer and early autumn. Unsurprisingly, Japanese people have nicknamed the print “Red Fuji,” and it is quite possibly the second-most famous depiction of Mt. Fuji.
South Wind, Clear Sky was one image in Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji, a series of woodblock images published by Hokusai and Nishimura Yohachi, presenting the sacred mountain as viewed from different locations and perspectives. As with the rest of prints in this series, this work featured liberal use of Prussian blue or Berlin blue, a rare and exotic pigment that had recently found its way to Japan via Dutch merchants.
Triptych of Takiyasha the Witch and the Skeleton Spectre (or Mitsukuni Defying the Skeleton Spectre Invoked by Princess Takiyasha) by Utagawa Kuniyoshi
Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1797–1861) is considered one of the last great ukiyo-e masters, and is renowned for his depictions of historical and mythical scenes, with particular attention paid to omens, apparitions, dreams, and fantastical feats. This triptych is one of his finest examples, taking as its subject a scene from The Story of Utō Yasutaka, written in 1807 by the Edo poet Santō Kyōden.
According to this tale, the Princess Takiyasha, the daughter of warlord Taira Masakado who had fomented rebellion against the court in Kyoto. Masakado was defeated and decapitated, and the ghosts of fallen soldiers began to haunt his palace at Soma. Kuniyoshi’s print illustrates a scene in which Takiyasha summons these ghosts by magical means, transforming them into a Gashadokuro, a yōkai (supernatural creature) that haunts lonely country roads and slurps the blood of solitary travellers. The original story features multiple skeletons, but Kuniyoshi replaces them with a single, gargantuan skeleton towering above the fearless warrior Ōya Taro Mitsukuni, who has been dispatched by the emperor to eradicate any of Masakado’s remaining allies.
Of special interest here is the anatomical precision and fidelity of the skeleton as drawn by Kuniyoshi, visually almost at odds with the stylised depictions of the humans in this scene. Thanks to the spread of Dutch Studies (Rangaku), it was relatively easy to obtain anatomical depictions of the human body. Kuniyoshi is said to have owned such illustrations, which may have inspired the realistic rendering of the skeleton here. Regardless, the overall effect is one of intense horror, as this huge skeleton threatens to overwhelm the smaller samurai warriors below.
One Hundred Ghost Stories: The Dish Mansion at Banchō by Katsushika Hokusai
The Anne van Biema Collection, National Museum of Asian Art Collection. Image from: https://asia.si.edu/explore-art-culture/collections/search/edanmdm:fsg_S2004.3.210/
The Dish Mansion at Banchō is from One Hundred Ghost Stories, an ukiyo-e print series by Hokusai that depicts yōkai from popular ghost stories of the time. The series reference the tradition of Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai (A Gathering of One Hundred Supernatural Tales), a popular game where people would share ghost stories and anecdotes as a test of courage, as well as to tempt some supernatural event into taking place. There are only five prints in the series, reminding us of the folly of setting overambitious targets. Fortunately, the five that do exist are excellent and memorable artworks.
The print takes as its subject the protagonist from the story of the same title. There are many versions of this tale, but all revolve around Okiku, a beautiful servant serving the lord of Himeji Castle. In the most popular version, she has caught the roving eye of her master, and rebuffs his repeated advances and entreaties to become his lover. He decides to trick her by hiding one of ten precious dishes that she is responsible for, and insinuates that she is to blame for its loss. She counts them over and over again to no avail. He magnanimously offers to overlook the matter if she will become his lover; when she rejects him again, he has her beaten, tied up and suspended over a well, tortured again, and ultimately killed and thrown into the well.
For this unjust death, Okiku becomes a vengeful spirit who haunts her murderer, counting to nine as she did the plates during her life, ending with a terrible shriek to represent the tenth plate. In some versions, she accidentally broke the dish; in others, it is the lord’s wife who plays this trick on Okiku out of jealousy, and who is the target of Okiku’s haunting afterwards.