高澤圭一, 中西利雄 & Matisse

in 1947, just after the war and the year i was born, two artists in japan were finding work, beyond their own "western-style" painting, as the painters of covers of women's magazines. since i first saw them in 2007 here, they have struck as very matisse-like. so i went out exploring.

closer examination proved me more accurate than i'd imagined. the two japanese artists whose work i most admired were toshio nakanishi and keiichi takasawa, i could find next to nothing about them in english, and the japanese translator (google) is pretty poor. but one thing i think i was able to ascertain was that the two that were my favorite were by keiichi takasawa, though they look nothing like his painting style (mostly of his wife, it is believed) which are not illustrated here. but there is similarity in style to his pamphlet on the kimono.

others were by toshio nakanishi whose painting style does look a lot his magazine colors. could i have misunderstood the japanese and these are really by nakanishi too?

but the similarities to matisse, not only in facial style and use of pattern, but in body language too. the outline is evident as are similar uses of flat color. though matisse, like frank lloyd wright, denied he was influenced by japanese art, the truth, also as with wright, was inescapable. as nakanishi began to fill in the flesh, matisse began to simplify it.

and the connections prove it not far-fetched. keiichi takasawa studied with foujita tsugeharu and both soon became integral parts of the paris art scene.

toshio naka- nishi was part of a group of rebellious artists, reaching to the west to grow parts of themselves. one like-minded artist, bijutsu shinron, said, "Of course one has to imitate. Even if we want to create works that are uniquely Japanese, we still need to look at Western paintings in order to supplement our own deficiencies. And I don't believe we have to set out to be 'Oriental.' If we simply express ourselves, the results will be sufficiently 'Oriental,' I'm sure."

i find it quite interesting, the similarities each culture went through adjusting to the new influences, the new style. another young japanese artist, koide narashige, was moved to comment, "I often hear that Japanese women are rather shapeless and that nudes other than those of Western women are worthless. Those who say so want to make fun of shapes of women depicted in Japanese oil paintings.

I do not know whether theirs is indeed the right form of the human body, but if a French beauty with thin hair about her lips comes at a distance of one foot from me, then, before being struck with her grace, I will be overwhelmed by her strange exaggerated nose, her deep-set piercing eyes and each pore of her rough skin, and I will possibly begin weeping. Some people despise short legs in view of a certain sort of individualism. In a streetcar I see fat young women sitting, their stocky legs not reaching the floor, but I can regard them as quite charming."

MATISSE, TOO

Matisse, too, when the fingers
ceased to work,
Worked larger and bolder,
his primary colors celebrating
The weddings of innocence and glory, innocence and glory

Monet
when the cataracts blanketed his eyes

Painted swirls of rage,

and when his sight recovered
Painted water lilies, Picasso claimed

I do not seek, I find,
and stuck to that story
About himself,
and made that story stick.
Damn the fathers.
We are talking about defiance.

Alicia Ostriker

Ostriker"Matisse, Too" from Poetry Magazine 12/06.

invent the sacred dance

SATURDAY NIGHT

Music is most sovereign because more than anything
else, rhythm and harmony find their way to the inmost
soul and take strongest hold upon it, bringing with
them and imparting grace.
—Plato, The Republic

The cranes are flying ...
—Chekhov












And here it comes: around the world,
In Chicago, Petersburg, Tokyo, the dancers
Hit the floor running (the communal dancefloor

Here, there, at intervals, sometimes paved,
Sometimes rotted linoleum awash in beer,
Sometimes a field across which the dancers streak

Like violets across grass, sometimes packed dirt
In a township of corrugated metal roofs)
And what was once prescribed ritual, the profuse

Strains of
premeditated art,
is now
improvisation,
The desperately new,
where to the
sine-curved
Yelps and spasms of
police sirens outside


The club, a spasmodic feedback ululates
The death and cremation of history,
Until a boy whose hair is purple spikes,

And a girl wearing a skull
That wants to say I’m cool but I’m in pain,
Get up and dance together, sort of, age thirteen.

Young
allegorists,
they’ll mime
motions
Of shootouts,
of tortured ones
in basements,
Of cold
insinuations
before sex

Between enemies, the jubilance of the criminal.
The girl tosses her head and dances
The shoplifter’s meanness and self-betrayal

For a pair of stockings, a scarf, a perfume,
The boy dances stealing the truck,
Shooting his father.

The point is to become a flying viper,
A diving vulva, the great point
Is experiment, like pollen flinging itself

Into far other habitats, or seed
That travels a migrant bird’s gut
To be shit overseas.

The creatures gamble on the whirl of life
And every adolescent body hot
Enough to sweat it out on the dance floor

Is a laboratory:
maybe this
lipstick,
these boots,
These jeans,
these earrings,
maybe if I flip
My hair and
vibrate
my pelvis

Exactly synched to the band’s wildfire noise
That imitates history’s catastrophe
Nuke for nuke, maybe I’ll survive,

Maybe we’ll all survive. . . .

At the intersection of poverty and plague
The planet's children—brave, uncontrollable, juiced
Out of their gourds—invent the sacred dance.

Alicia Ostriker

“Saturday Night” from
The Little Space: Poems Selected and New, 1968-1998.
Copyright © 1998 by Alicia Ostriker.
All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260, upress.pitt.edu.

fly like an eagle

Music is most sovereign
because more than anything else,
rhythm and harmony find
their way to the inmost
soul and take strongest hold
upon it, bringing with
them and imparting grace.
—Plato, The Republic

The cranes are flying ...
—Chekhov

And here it comes: around the world,
In Chicago, Petersburg, Tokyo,
the dancers
Hit the floor running
(the communal dancefloor

Here, there, at intervals,
sometimes paved,
Sometimes rotted linoleum
awash in beer,
Sometimes a field across which
the dancers streak

Like violets across grass, sometimes packed dirt
In a township of corrugated metal roofs)
And what was once prescribed ritual, the profuse

Strains of premeditated art,
is now improvisation,
The desperately new, where to the sine-curved
Yelps and spasms of police sirens outside

The club, a spasmodic feedback ululates
The death and cremation of history,
Until a boy whose hair is purple spikes,

And a girl wearing a skull
That wants to say I’m cool but I’m in pain,
Get up and dance together, sort of,
age thirteen.

Young allegorists, they’ll mime motions
Of shootouts,
of tortured ones in basements,
Of cold insinuations before sex

Between enemies,
the jubilance of the criminal.
The girl tosses her head and dances
The shoplifter’s meanness and self-betrayal

For a pair of stockings, a scarf,
a perfume,
The boy dances stealing the truck,
Shooting his father.

The point is to become
a flying viper,
A diving vulva, the great point
Is experiment, like pollen flinging itself

Into far other habitats, or seed
That travels a migrant bird’s gut
To be shit overseas.

The creatures gamble
on the whirl of life
And every adolescent body hot
Enough to sweat it out on the dance floor

Is a laboratory: maybe this lipstick, these boots,
These jeans, these earrings, maybe if I flip
My hair and vibrate my pelvis

Exactly synched to the band’s wildfire noise
That imitates history’s catastrophe
Nuke for nuke, maybe I’ll survive,

Maybe we’ll all survive. . . .

At the intersection of poverty
and plague
The planet's children—brave, uncontrollable, juiced
Out of their gourds—invent the sacred dance.

Alicia Ostriker

“Saturday Night” from The Little Space:
Poems Selected and New, 1968-1998.
Copyright © 1998 by Alicia Ostriker.

more cranes