Shimada Bijutsukan - the grail of Musashi seekers

A close-up of the most famous portrait of Musashi. Even here
there's much you don't see. (Original photo here.)

Just last week I finally took my long awaited trip down to Kyushu, where one of my primary aims was to visit the Shimada Bijutsukan, which keeps a handy collection of stuff related to Miyamoto Musashi.

Kumamoto, where the museum is, was the city where Musashi spent the last few years of his life as a guest of the Hosokawas. Kyushu itself was, possibly, also an area where he had spent quite some time earlier in his life. If we are to believe the account in the Bushu Denraiki, he was involved in fighting here during the Sekigahara campaign, rather than at Sekigahara itself (which is the more common version of events). Sekigahara, by the way, is located somewhere between Kyoto and Nagoya, far away from Kyushu. Musashi's father was also down in Kyushu, and it is thought Musashi visited him.

Kyushu was also far way from the centre of power in Edo - by this time in his life it seems that Musashi had given up whatever ambitions he may have had with regard to fame and power, and so had no particular reason to remain in Honshu.

Shimada Bijutsukan
The Shimada Museum is only a short taxi ride from the main station, but already it feels like the outskirts of the city - I guess it is really, as the main station is on the western edge of the city rather than in the centre. I had imagined it to be in a more built-up area, but it's a mere stone's throw from the mountains, in a sleepy residential street with wide grass verges and little expectation of a taxi dropping by if you might need one.

It has a nice entrance-way, opening onto a courtyard of what used to be the Shimada family villa, with a very underused looking tea shop to the left and the main gallery straight ahead. It looked more like an off-season pension - friendly but needing a bit of yard work - than the repository of irreplaceable art treasures.

Of course, I was there for the exhibits, so I didn't linger outside for too long, but went inside, paying my entrance fee and heading straight for the Musashi gallery, which was a smallish room with display cabinets along the walls and one in the centre. It wasn't large, but there was more genuine Musashi memorabilia gathered there than in any other place I had seen - (which wasn't saying much, as it's seldom that more than a couple of pieces are assembled in any other venue).

Photos were out of the question, of course, but from memory, there were two of his own sumi-e works (a small landscape and a goose in flight), his famous self-portrait, a mounted section of notes written for Gorin no Sho, two swords in (probably) modern mountings, a bokuto said to be a version of his cut down oar as used for his duel with Sasaki Kojiro, but actually made in the Meiji period, a sword reputed to be Sasaki Kojiro's, several other portraits of Musashi including the famous one of him when he was a teenager, one of his namako tsuba, a version of his Dokodo, a version of Gorin no Sho (although it looked rather too modern to be one of the originals) and a case with some early Showa period comics and books etc. There could possibly have been one or two other things, but that was about it.

Someone  (not me) disregarded no photography signs to take this.

Only a small room, but it was worth the visit. Unfortunately, the glass cases got in the way of examining the swords and made it very difficult to see the koshirae in any detail (though they were clearly fine examples of Higo - that's Kumamoto area - koshirae). Looking at the paintings was quite enlightening and, as nearly always, seeing the originals was a very different experience from looking at reproductions in books or on websites. You are far more able to understand the skill and technique of the artist when you see the originals.

In a typical reproduction such as
this, the upper and lower inner
garments look the same colour -
in the actual painting, the upper is
clearly grey, the lower, white. The
detail of the pattern on the red haori
is not visible either.

I was especially struck by several features of this painting that simply do not show up on any of the reproductions I have seen. It is usually described as a self-portrait, and despite it being in a different style from Musashi's sumi-e works, there is no particular reason for doubting it. What is almost certain, however, from seeing it close up, is that Musashi had studied painting from a teacher - there are some specific techniques, particularly the pattern on the red robe, that it is very unlikely Musashi would have used (or could have used?) without instruction. Wilson barely touches on this in The Lone Samurai, and assumes Musashi signing his name in the register of Hosokawa's court artist of the Yano school was a mere formality - I question this and, as the Yanos were artists of the highest quality (as I saw in this visit) think it highly likely Musashi did take formal instruction with them. (By the way, Wilson is about the only writer who deals with Musashi's art seriously, and he is pretty good on it, so I recommend reading his book).

Of course, in Gorin no Sho, Musashi says he had no teachers, but he also says that was the first time he had written about the principles of his style, which seems to discount Heiho sanjugokajo (35 Articles on Strategy).

As with most such places, there were English titles to the exhibits, but the explanations were in Japanese. Unfortunately, they were mainly for the casual visitor, so they tended to shy away from dates and definite details and dealt in generalities. Were the koshirae of those swords supposed to have been Musashi's? Or based on some description of his koshirae? It didn't say. If this was the dokodo, what about the one I saw at the Prefectural Museum later that day? Were there two copies? And what about that suspiciously modern modern looking Gorin no Sho?

There were other galleries in the museum - it seems to show quite a lot of modern craft on a regular basis, and have seasonal exhibitions of 'samurai' related art... a big show of swords and koshirae, by modern makers, when I was there, but I didn't have time to take this in properly.

Of course, I recommend it - for Musashi afficianados, especially. A word of warning - be prepared for problems in getting away from the museum - a long walk or a long wait for the bus are likely prospects unless you are lucky. I was lucky, and while waiting for the bus in 33 degree sunshine and no shade, hailed  one of the few passing taxis and was whisked away to further sites of interest - Kumamoto castle and the Prefectural Museum.

Musashi's Monkey design Part 2

Recently, I found this picture of Musashi's monkey, which has finally allowed me to understand what the piece looked like.

It is actually an origane (soritsuno, kaeritsuno are some of the alternative names) - a small hook that fastened onto the underside of the obi (sash) and kept the sword from moving around too much. They were not used universally - presumably to the owner's taste, and were more common on wakizashi than on longer swords. 

Unfortunately, the photo is not very high quality (it looks like it's from an old auction catalogue), but it is still possible to see the overall design. At last, here was Musashi's monkey!!

What I had originally seen was this:

From Victor Harris's Go Rin no Sho
Left: the origane; right: kurigata. Note the crescent moon just visible at the bottom

From the picture below you can see how the two parts were fitted on the saya - and from this angle, would appear as in the above photo, with the monkey reaching towards the left.

A wakizashi showing positioning of the kurigata and origane (as it appears
to be made of horn, a kaeritsuno in this case). (Original source)

Being an origane, it is only small to start with, and consistent with its purpose, which is to slide over the bottom of the obi, its contours are smoothed out - perhaps this is what suggested to Musashi the form of a sinuous, long-armed monkey. From the top view in Victor Harris's book, it was not possible to see the long, relaxed curve of the monkey's arm, but the side view shows this very nicely. One might be tempted to read something into this about the importance of certain attributes in swordsmanship. After all, his tsuba also portray creatures known for their smoothness and suppleness, and the gibbon is, of course, particularly noted for the liquid quality of its movement.

Despite the function of the proverb in Zen, which is to illustrate the folly of the monkey's action (thus making it the only motif I can think of, off the top of my head, used in sword fittings which depicts an animal not to be admired), I am sure Musashi would have depicted it as embodying the qualities he found so important in swordsmanship.

The Autumn Monkey

Musashi also made a well-known written reference to monkeys.

In both Heihosanjugokajo and Gorin no Sho, Musashi writes of the 'shuko', which is written as 'Autumn monkey' and clearly refers to a monkey that does not stretch out its arms.
"Te wo dasanu kokoro nari"... 'Do not stretch out your arms', he says.

A Japanese macaque, by the painter and gifted lacquer
artist Shibata Zesshin (1807-1891)

Clearly he is not talking about gibbons, but the native Japanese monkey, which is a kind of macaque. Compared to the gibbon, these are, indeed, short-armed. The term, autumn monkey is still a little puzzling. Philology is an inexact discipline, so I am not sure there is really an answer to this. I have read one theory that suggests it refers to the behavior of the pregnant or nursing female during the autumn - normally monkeys dash forward and snatch food at arms length, but during this time, females are more cautious and only take food that doesn't necessitate such smash-and-grab tactics.

It certainly seems reasonable, but I don't know enough about the habits of the Japanese macaque to confirm this. It does have a seasonable mating period (unlike the gibbon) so there may be some truth to this.

Japanese macaques are widespread across Japan, and Musashi would undoubtably have been familiar with them, and probably have observed them at fairly close quarters. I have seen them on the outskirts of Kyoto myself. It is quite clear to an observer, that when they move, they move with the whole body - they rarely sit and stretch their arms out for food, but move their whole body to get it. Their arms retain a characteristically greater degree of curve than a human's. It may be this that made them so characteristically 'short-armed' rather than any peculiarities of the mating season. Philologically speaking, it seems just as likely that autumn was the period when they were most likely to show up in the fields to steal the ripening fruit from the farmers, or an allusion to their red faces.

Whatever the reason, it seems likely that it's usefulness as an example is strengthened by an awareness of the symbolism of 'the monkey reaching for the moon'. If reaching out gets you dead, then you shouldn't reach out. I imagine this meaning was uppermost for Musashi and those associated with him, while later generations took it primarily at face value, as suggested by the Zen story, as a warning against striving for illusory goals and earthly pleasures.

The monkey(gibbon) reaching for the moon as a motif
The use of this theme in art seems to have been comparatively well-established in Musashi's time - it is difficult to date when it was first adopted as a motif for the bushi class. Works featuring this motif have been attributed to Sesshu (1420-1506), and certainly Sesson (1504-1589) used it in several major works. The tsuba maker Kaneie may have been the first to have adopted it for sword furniture. The name Kaneie was, in fact, used by a line of famous tsuba makers rather than a single person, the first generations of whom established a new pictorial style of tsuba decoration, which included the use of designs inspired by famous painters, such as Sesshu.

Tsuba by 2nd generation Kaneie

This particular Kaneie was the 2nd generation of the line. Rumor has it that he was also a student of the sword, and also possibly a student of Musashi, (although I have seen no proof of this). He was originally based in Fushimi, later moving to Higo (present day Kumamoto) where Musashi lived in his later years, so it is certainly possible that he studied with Musashi. This is the kind of oral lore that is passed down through sword lineages and makes up much of the colour and breadth of traditional teaching.

It is an interesting connection, and certainly made me look a little harder at his tsuba - despite the delicacy of the designs, they have a robust quality which I think a swordsman would value. Fushimi was the one-time residence and administrative centre of Toyotomi Hideyoshi's rule, with many of the most important men of the realm gathered there (and Kyoto just a few kilometres up the river). Hideyoshi's promotion of the arts would have meant that Kaneie was in the right place to see plenty of fine examples of the finest painters of the time, including the Kano family and Hasegawa Tohaku.

The motif was not uncommon on swords during the Edo era, but by then it was, I presume, used without any particular reference to swordsmanship. Here is a nice example from this website:

Finally, I couldn't finish without including this contemporary painting by Enoki Toshiyuki entitled 'Autumn Monkey' in which he combines the autumn theme and the monkey reaching for the moon. 

Musashi's Monkey Design Part 1

Not by Musashi, but Mu Qi, a Chinese painter
of the Song Dynasty. 

I have a particular fondness for gibbons, so I was very pleased to be able to add another piece to a mystery that has puzzled me for quite a few years now - what is that strange sword fitting, attributed to Musashi, shown in Victor Harris's Go Rin No Sho?

Miyamoto Musashi's artwork is well known - but as with any artist, many of his works are far more familiar to us than others.

His paintings, especially of the shrike sitting on a branch, are often reproduced and, of course, his tsuba design has become extremely popular with manufacturers of reproduction swords. A quick search on google will produce an overwhelming number of these. However, there are many of his works that are far less well-known.

Elusive or exclusive? 
Many of these are in private collections or small municipal museums, and are, in many cases, not on permanent display or not available for public viewing at all.

Perhaps this is a good thing - it may aid the preservation of fragile works, and is, to some extent, a carry-over of the original use and purposes of these works of art. Many works are owned and kept by temples and shrines, and are still used as part of their devotional practices. The yearly Gion festival in Kyoto features large wheeled floats that are decorated with Gobelin tapestries and many other extremely valuable artworks of various ages and provenances. (Within the last few years, the older tapestries have been replaced with replicas, but still, for hundreds of years, these 17th century tapestries were paraded around the city on a yearly basis, suffering the vagaries of the rain, heat and high humidity). This is art being used, as part of life, and it may, in many ways, be better than the preservation of objects in the sterile setting of a museum, as part of the heritage industry.

(Of course, I am also a greedy consumer of that heritage industry, and welcome the chance to see art in the comfortable and accessible setting of a museum, removed from the location and context for which it was originally designed.)

But some works remain elusive. Art collecting in Japan still partakes of the exclusive, the secretive, and the elitist. There is nothing wrong in this per se, but it does make it a world of closed doors and hidden treasures. However catching a glimpse of these can be a pleasure in itself.

Musashi's Monkey
Of all of Musashi's works, perhaps the most elusive has been one of the first I ever saw. This was one of several examples of koshirae (sword fittings) he designed; a monkey stretching for the moon.  The original - and for a long time, the only - pictures I had seen of this piece were, as I mentioned above, in Victor Harris's Go Rin No Sho, but despite being good quality photographs, they didn't really show the piece clearly, and it was quite difficult to imagine what it looked like. The two photos actually show two different pieces of a set, a top view of the monkey, and of the kurigata, but neither is easy to identify if you are not familiar with this sort of thing.

Reaching for the Moon
The theme is a familiar one in Japanese art - a long-armed monkey (a gibbon, really) reaches for the reflection of the moon in pool. Although it is not exactly common, it is also not especially unusual as a theme for sword fittings. Here is an example from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts:

Hakuin Ekaku

The theme comes from Buddhism, and thus from China, and has been popular a popular one with artists. Even without the moon, gibbons have been a popular theme - Mu Qi, the Chinese painter, set the bar very high with the painting shown at the top of this post; Hasegawa Tohaku's gibbons are also very fine - he surely saw Mu Qi's work as it is owned by Daitokuji Temple in Kyoto - Tohaku lived and worked in the city - and a little later, Hakuin Ekaku brushed some playful versions that have become some of the best known illustrations of the story.

The story was popular in the Zen tradition - the symbolism is clear, and can be elaborated in detail, but simply stated, it represents the futility of desire: the monkey is reaching for an illusion, a reflection of the truth. As soon as it touches the water, the reflection will be gone. No matter how hard it tries, it can never grasp the truth (in this way).

Kano Minenobu

An older version of the story makes the dangers more apparent. One night, upon waking, a monkey noticed the reflection of the moon in the pool far below. Thinking that the moon had fallen in and they would all be plunged into permanent night-time darkness if it sank, the monkeys organised a chain to reach down and grab it. Alas, the branch broke, and they fell in and drowned.

For an artist to depict this theme requires a little humility - it can apply to so many areas that it is difficult not to see something of oneself in the monkey... after all most of us are striving for the baubles of life, believing they will give us happiness. Perhaps it this aspect of personal identification that has most artists'  monkeys looking so cute.

So what does Musashi's monkey look like? I will post pictures in part 2.

(N.B. although I use  the terms interchangeably here, the 'monkey' is really a gibbon - and gibbon's are not actually monkeys. I know this, and it would have annoyed the hell out of me in years gone by, but as it is usually translated as monkey, I will let it pass.)

Musashi Tsuba

From the Kumamoto Prefectural Museum

After spending some time looking at the Yagyu tsuba, I thought it was only fair to take a similar look at the tsuba that Miyamoto Musashi made. When I say made, although it is by no means certain to what extent he was actualy involved in their manufacture, his skills as an artist are not in doubt, so it is likely that he was more involved in the work than Yagyu Renyasai; I imagine he actually drew out the designs at some stage and, as we know he had skill as a wood-carver, may even have made maquettes (wooden models) and quite likely worked the metal himself. It is also fairly likely that, when he lived as a guest of the Hosokawa family in his later years, that he would have been able to work with skilled artisans in the same way that Renyasai did.

There are two designs that have come down to us that are normally credited to Musashi. The first might, more properly, be regarded as his version of an already existing design. This is his namako or sea cucumber/sea slug design. Several different versions of this exist, differing only slightly, that were made by him or under supervision, but as anyone who has ever googled 'Musashi' and 'tsuba' will know, it is extremely popular as a design for replica swords, both on account of its connection with Musashi and its elegant simplicity (and thus ease of reproduction).

Although the term namako is used independently to refer to this vaguely slug-shaped design in a variety of contexts, I think Musashi may have been purposely referencing the sea cucumber, given that his other tsuba design, the namazu and hyotan (catfish and gourd) is strongly linked to the same principle characteristic - slipperiness.

This is another variation - I believe it is authentic and belongs to a private collector

The slippery sea slug
If you want more on this, you will have to see Robin D. Gill's book, 'Rise, Ye Sea Slugs', an anthology of sea cucumber poetry, but just a couple of the poems he includes will give you an idea:


Sanehira no te o suberitaru namako kana
It even gave
the slip to Sanehira (i.e. it slipped from his hands)
sea slug sashimi
- Chosui (1700-1769)

Shingen mo hashi ni kufu no namako kana
Even Shingen
had to improvise
eating sea slug (with chopsticks)
-Somaru (1712-1795)

From the Musashi Shiryokan in Mimasaka City

The slippery catfish
The saying 'hyotan de namako wo osaeru' (to hold down a catfish with a gourd) has two closely related meanings - one denotes the impossibility of an endeavor, while the other is somewhat similar to 'as slippery as an eel'. The theme has a long connection with Zen, starting, as far as anyone has been able to reliably ascertain, with a painting by  Josetsu, Hyonenzu, which is usually translated as 'Catching a catfish with a gourd'. The theme was suggested by the shogun Ashikaga Yoshimochi, and above the painting itself are 31 poems brushed by important Zen monks commenting on the difficulty or non-sensical nature of the task. Since then, the theme has been used as an illustration of the difficulty of attaining enlightenment through rational means. As Dave Lowry noted in an old column in Black Belt magazine, the solution is to leave the gourd and allow the curious catfish to find its own way in.

However, if we are using the image in the sense of pinning down the catfish, it is the slippery nature of both the gourd and the fish that are important. The fact that Musashi used the theme of slipperiness on two tsuba designs seems to point to an important aspect of his swordsmanship. The gourd itself had a very similar role as a symbol in the teachings of the Kashima Shinryu, and presumeably also in Yagyu swordsmanship, (there are references to it in poems by Yagyu Sekishusai and in the tsuba designs of Renyasai) relating to the difficulty of pressing down a buoyant gourd underwater. This image almost exactly parallels that of the catfish and the gourd - once you think you have it, it has wriggled out from underneath your sword. I believe this refers to the sensitivity necessary in pressing down an opponent's blade, as well as the irrepressible fluidity the swordsman sought to develop himself.

Other tsuba associated with Musashi

As well as the tsuba he designed, Musashi used a variety of tsuba on his own swords - although one portrait does appear to show the namako tsuba on his sword, the well-known self-portrait does not. I haven't visited the Shimada Art Museum in Kumamoto, but  believe there is a tsuba with a cherry blossom design which is said to have been owned by Musashi. I can find no hard information on it, but I believe it may be this one, which is owned by the museum, and is certainly very beautiful.

Intriguingly, the bridge over the Miyamotogawa in the village of Ohara, which claims to be the birth-place of Musashi, and has done its best to lure the tourists hither, displays both a cherry blossom tsuba design and the common namako design. Whether this was a whim of the artist or based on some hard facts, I have no idea.

Quick edit... I was looking at the design as a sukashi tsuba...with the dark bits cut out...of course it is actually the design in the photo above - I just didn't realise it until now.




I was going to write something about Musashi koshirae, but I think that will have to wait for next time or I'll never get this up!