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     Kenzan was a man. Actually, he was several men. Kenzan was also a place, a title, a style, a tradition, a commodity and, ultimately, a manipulated, exportable antiquity.

      Richard L. Wilson, his collaborators, and the Freer Gallery of Art staff under the direction of Louise Cort have assembled an exhibition of the Kenzan pottery tradition that speaks clearly and convincingly about all these attributes. Entitled “The Potter’s Brush: The Kenzan Style in Japanese Ceramics,” this exhibition is on view through October 27 at the Freer Gallery of Art of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.

      Accompanying the exhibition is a fascinating text, thoughtfully organized and beautifully illustrated. Wilson writes with precision and frankness. He has devoted years to the study of Kenzan, has published numerous works on the subject, and now puts forth a comprehensive history of this famous oeuvre. He also documents the social, political, religious, cultural and monetary environments that ultimately shaped the production of this work for over 200 years.

     Wilson sets before us a pictorial and historical feast. Some people argue that artwork cannot be fully appreciated outside of its own historical context. These pots and this collection make that case very clearly. On the other hand, they also prove that some part of all works of art transcend their time and speak powerfully to those who appreciate the human condition and the objects that flow from that condition.  Due to the complexity of the subject, the exhibition and the text, I have organized my remarks under seven headings: Kenzan, Freer, Lineage, The Pots, Art History, For Potters and The Book.

Kenzan
      Japan was largely closed to the West until 1854 when Commodore Perry negotiated a treaty opening two Japanese ports to U.S. ships for resupply. Four years later, Townsend Harris negotiated a Treaty of Commerce that opened Japanese ports to U.S. trade—symbolized by the opening of Yokohama in 1859. In the preceding 250 years, Japan had prospered under a peaceful and effective military rule, and the culture had flourished. It was into this sophisticated and civilized environment that Ogata Kenzan (1663–1743) was born and educated by his prosperous family. He was given the best of everything, and he committed himself to a life of arts and letters.

     Kenzan’s work in ceramics began in 1699. He entered the field as an amateur with “a sense of clumsy enthusiasm and naïve iconoclasm.” This unlikely combination led him to produce vessels that contrasted sharply to Arita porcelain, the popular highend ceramics of the day. Kenzan’s pots were intentionally informal and naturalistic.

     The notion of the studio potter that many Americans have does not apply to Kenzan or Japanese ceramics of his period.  While many of us mix our clay, throw or build in some manner, trim, decorate, glaze, fire and finally market our wares, such was not usually the case in Japan. There, most pots were produced through divided labor. Clay was dug, processed and sold by a supplier; throwers threw and builders built. Kenzan decorated and signed the ware. He designed it, hired the throwers and oversaw every aspect of the production. 

     So, what is it that Ogata Kenzan produced that adhered itself to Japan’s culture for over 200 years? The answer is not simple. Wilson presents us with six aspects of Kenzan’s work, which, taken together, largely explain his achievements and enduring appeal. To look at just one of these six, utsushi, he writes:

“Ogata Kenzan was not the first potter to reproduce earlier or external models. Starting with the fifth century, much of Japanese ceramic history can be so described. But, from the mid-seventeenth century, a certain kind of copy, bearing the imprint, not only of makers, but also of patrons, became fashionable in Kyoto.  This is called utsushi—copying with a difference. The difference lies in a paradox: through various forms of stylization, such as technical refinement or a bland clumsiness, the utsushi creates or maintains the very difference that the copy proposes to obliterate.  Intentions are meant to intrude.”

     This esoteric concept sits more comfortably in a foreign culture than our own, I suspect. But, the intimate connection between the potter and the client, like commissioned work, is a practice that is familiar to us all. More on Kenzan’s influence can be read at the Freer Gallery website (www.asia.si.edu), where portions of the text are available.

Freer
      The other central figure in this exhibition is Charles Freer (1854–1919), who collected Kenzan ceramics from 1894 until 1911. He made his money in a Detroit-based company that supplied the railroads, and was first introduced to the aesthetic and cultural value of Japanese art by the American painter James McNeill Whistler. Freer read widely and collected carefully, using both American and Japanese dealers. He cultivated these relationships and made substantial financial commitments to his sources. To a degree, his collecting interests actually had an impact on the value of the works he sought.

     During this time, Japanese ceramics were shown at numerous world fairs and expositions. It was not long before there was worldwide interest in this body of work, including Kenzan ware.

     According to Louise Cort, Curator for Ceramics at the Freer Gallery and the impetus behind this exhibition and book, the exhibition contains the entire Kenzan inventory held by the gallery.  Each item shown appears in the book, along with notes on Freer’s sources and comments on authenticity and lineage by Wilson and others. In addition, Wilson reveals some ambitious hoaxes, forgeries and misrepresentations perpetrated by dealers of Kenzan ware over the years.

Lineage
      Many American potters first became aware of Kenzan through the writings of Bernard Leach. Therein, it was suggested that Kenzan and his successors constituted an unbroken line of firstrate potters, widely revered and ending with Leach as Kenzan VII.

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