Camera Work: A Photographic Quarterly (1910 (Heft 29))

A BRANCH OF CHERRY BLOSSOMS

THE angular end of a wild cherry branch, running diagonally across
the picture, with white flowers scattered loosely over its twigs,
silhouetted against the sky and the pale disc of a vernal moon. Such
is the design which recurs again and again in the art of Old Japan.
A few vigorous strokes, dabs and washes to convey the structure of the
bough and the markings of the bark, a few flourishes with the point of the
brush to cover the twigs with long-stemmed flowers, a sweep of pale turquoise
to suggest the lunar circle—and the task is accomplished. An arrangement
in two colors in such perfect relationship with the tint of the silken canvas that
the pale straw-colored background suggests space and atmosphere without
having been touched.
Nothing simpler could be imagined, yet it conveys the spirit of spring far
better than elaborate landscapes of entire orchards and rows of budding trees.
A mere silhouette and yet suggestive of all that is beautiful in spring. It
recalls the loveliness of those islands of the East, when their cherry groves are
clouded in one great filmy mist of petals, behind which the temples disappear
from sight, and only their blue roofs loom like some strange ocean craft above
the snow-white billows, while pilgrims with large round basket hats crowd
the mountain-roads, and wend their way through realms of mist and legend
to the summits of Fuji.
It must take tender, intimate appreciation of small things to convey so
much by such frugal means. In that way a symbolist may paint the poetry of
a garden bench, the melody of a deserted mill, or the dreamy character of an
old colonial door. To find the rhyme to the humble elements of life demands
a big heart and a pure and sturdy belief, a generous nature to which nothing
appears insignificant, a receptive mind that worships in all forms the same
inherent force and ultimate wisdom.
Such must have been the artists of Old Japan. They did not strive to
please or astonish. They felt intuitively what is beautiful and true, and they
possessed the rare power to convey this beauty and truth to others. And thus
the simple branch of cherry blossoms was handed from artist to artist through
the centuries. It has been painted on silk and engraved in cherry wood, it
has been embroidered on kimonos and garments, it has been fashioned in
cloisonne, lacquer and hammered bronze. It has invoked artificers without
rest to scatter its beauty like the snow of white petals on the paths of spring.
And we, who live amidst the rusty noise of commerce, clamor for original-
ity, for an incessant change of subjects. Discouraged and bewildered our artists
evoke images of former times they no longer understand, and struggle for the
expression of novel and violent experiences. Filled with passionate perplexity
the mind never relaxes its tension, and overlooks the sentiment of continual
transformation in things that are near to all of us. What a delusion, as if
the secret of supreme art abided only in quaint inventions that bear the stigma
of the day.