Impressions of Ukiyo-ye, the school of the Japanese colour-print artists — Reading Companion
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ome was largely a Greek revival.” There seems ever to have been a reciprocal action in Japanese Art. Tosa, famed for delicacy of touch, minutiæ of detail and brilliance of colour, yielded to the black and white, vigorous force of Kano. Kano again was modified by the glowing colouring introduced by Kano Masanobu and Motonobu. Later we see the varied palette of Miyagawa Choshun efface the monochromic simplicity of Moronobu, the ringleader of the printers of Ukiyo-ye.
The leading light in art in the beginning of the fifteenth century was Cho Densu, the Fra Angelico of Japan, who, a simple monk, serving in a Kyoto temple, must in a trance of religious and artistic ecstasy have beheld a spectrum of fadeless dyes, so wondrous were the colours he lavished upon the draperies of his saints and sages. The splendour of this beatific vision has never faded, for the masters who followed in the footsteps of the inspired monk reverently preserved the secret of these precious shades, till at last, in the form of the Ukiyo-ye print, they were sown broadcast, and revolutionized the colour sense of the art world.
It has been remarked that Japanese Art of the nineteenth century is often nothing but a reproduction of the works of the ancient great masters, and the methods and mannerisms of the fifteenth century artists have ever served as examples for later students. The glory of the fifteenth century was increased by Mitsunobu of Tosa, and above all by the two great Kano artists, Masanobu and his son, Motonobu, who received the title of “Hogen,” and is referred to as “Ko Hogen,” or the ancient Hogen, of whom it has been remarked, “He filled the air with luminous beams.”
By the close of the fifteenth century the principles of art in Japan became definitely fixed, as, almost contemporaneously, Giotto established a canon of art in Florence, which he, in turn, had received from the Attic Greeks, through Cimabue, and which was condensed by Ruskin into a grammar of art, under the term “Laws of Fésole.”
The two great schools, Tosa and Kano, flourished independently until the middle of the eighteenth century, when the genius of the popular artists, forming the school of Ukiyo-ye, gradually fused the traditions of Tosa and Kano, absorbing the methods of these rival schools,—which, differing in technique and motive, were united in their proud disdain of the new art which dared to represent the manners and customs of the common people. Harunobu and Hokusai, Kiyonaga and Hiroshige were the crowning glory of all the schools,—the artists whose genius told the story of their country, day by day, weaving a century of history into one living encyclopedia, sumptuous in form, kaleidoscopic in colour.
Ukiyo-ye prepared Japan for intercourse with other nations by developing in the common people an interest in other countries, in science and foreign culture, and by promoting the desire to travel, through the means of illustrated books of varied scenes. To Ukiyo-ye, the Japanese owed the gradual expansion of international consciousness, which culminated in the revolution of 1868,—a revolution, the most astonishing in history, accomplished as if by miracle; but the esoteric germ of this seemingly spontaneous growth of Meiji lay in the atelier of the artists of Ukiyo-ye.
To trace the evolution of the Popular School in its development through nearly three centuries is a lengthy study, of deep interest. The mists of uncertainty gather about the lives of many apostles of Ukiyo-ye, from the originator, Iwasa Matahei, to Hiroshige, one of the latest disciples, whose changes of style and diversity of signature have given rise to the supposition that as many as three artists are entitled to the name. These mists of tradition cannot be altogether dispersed by such indefatigable students as M. Louis Gonse, Professor Fenollosa, M. Edmond de Goncourt, Wm. Anderson, John S. Happer and many others, but by their aid the methods of Oriental Art are clarified and explained.
Iwasa Matahei, the date of whose birth is given as 1578, is considered to be the originator of the Popular School. The spontaneous growth of great movements and the mystery of the source of genius are illustrated in the career of Matahei. His environment fitted him to follow in the footsteps of his master, Mitsunori of Tosa. Yet the city of Kyoto, veiled in mystic sanctity, where religion and princely patronage held art in conventional shackles, gave birth to the leader of the Popular School. Still, was not Kyoto, the sacred heart of Japan, a fit cradle for Ukiyo-ye, the life and soul of the Japanese people?
Dora Amsden's Impressions of Ukiyo-ye (1905) opens not with a dry chronology but with a vivid, sensory immersion into the costumes depicted in Japanese colour-prints. The author channels Edmond de Goncourt's ecstatic descriptions of Utamaro's dresses—'violet dresses, where, upon the border, degradation rosée'—and immediately establishes a critical framework that blends art history with literary impressionism. The catalog subjects—Color prints, Japanese; Wood-engraving—Japan—History; Ukiyoe—Japan—are present, but the excerpts reveal a text more concerned with aesthetic and moral judgments than with technical processes. Amsden's voice is that of a connoisseur, not a cataloguer, and she freely borrows from French critics to evaluate Japanese masters.
The French Lens on Ukiyo-ye
The excerpts show that Amsden relies heavily on Edmond de Goncourt as an authority, quoting his rhapsodies on Utamaro's palette: 'Robes of that milky blue the Chinese call “blue of the sky after the rain.”' This reliance raises a question about the relationship between the catalog subject 'Color prints, Japanese' and the actual content: the text is as much about French aestheticism as about Japanese prints. Amsden even uses Goncourt's phrase 'Zolaism in prints' to critique Utamaro's later work, linking the artist to literary naturalism. The reader should note that the book's perspective is filtered through a Western, fin-de-siècle sensibility, which shapes how the 'school of the Japanese colour-print artists' is presented.
Moral Judgment and Artistic Decline
Amsden does not shy from moralizing. She describes Utamaro's later period as a 'loss of self-control' that led to a 'delirium of female tallness' and 'art born of excess.' This language—'cynical brush caricaturing'—suggests a biographical reading of the prints, where the artist's personal life (described as 'constant self-indulgence') directly corrupts his work. The catalog subject 'Ukiyoe—Japan' might imply a neutral historical survey, but the excerpts reveal a narrative of rise and fall, with Kiyonaga as a restorative force and Utamaro as a cautionary tale. The text also connects this decline to modern poster art and Aubrey Beardsley, positioning Ukiyo-ye as a precursor to Western decadence.
Structure and the Missing Technical Detail
The table of contents lists chapters on 'The Rise of Ukiyo-ye,' 'Genroku,' 'The School of Torii,' and individual artists, suggesting a chronological structure. However, the excerpts focus almost exclusively on Utamaro and his circle, with only passing mention of Hokusai (a surimono description) and Hiroshige (a landscape caption). The catalog subject 'Wood-engraving—Japan—History' implies technical discussion, but the excerpts contain no details about carving, printing, or color registration. Instead, the text is impressionistic, dwelling on visual effects and moral implications. Readers expecting a technical manual will find a critical essay that uses prints as springboards for cultural commentary.
Amsden's Impressions is best approached as a period piece of art criticism, not a definitive history. Its value lies in its documentation of early 20th-century Western reception of Ukiyo-ye, complete with the biases and enthusiasms of that era. Readers should compare Amsden's judgments with the actual prints she describes, noting where her French-inspired rhetoric amplifies or distorts the works themselves. The book rewards those interested in cross-cultural aesthetics and the genealogy of taste.
I remember standing in a silent gallery, tracing Hokusai’s wave with my eyes, and feeling the same stillness I later found in the cramped pages of Mozart: The Man and the Artist, as Revealed in His Own Words — Context and Discussion. Both books let an artist speak through the murmur of their craft, not the noise of biography. There’s a particular tenderness in that—hearing a life without its masks.
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