...I dig it, dig it , dig it...
this
and Pascal Obispo...this track from the first album I bought of his...; here you go
and one of my favourite contemporary Chanson singers Patricia Kaas
...but as a final standard setter; Marie Carmen singing the same song...
and she does it so sexily...
while we're listening to all this French music I might as well slip in one of my favourite bits of opera. It's, uncharacteristically, not in Italian, or German!....but in French. This is the famous male duet from Bizet's "the Pearl Fishers"
It expresses the devotion of 2 friends, a younger man and his older mentor, to one another. In the song we learn that they are both in love with the same woman but to preserve their friendship they both pledge to abandon the lady. Needless to say, the younger man cannot resist the urging of his heart and the story evolves toward it's inevitable end. Here, however, ideals and emotion are pure.
The actual story of this particular recording, the gold standard in terms of this song, is very interesting too.
I suppose I ought to get back up to date now, so here's something that makes me feel very proud to be English, the way this man was seen purely for what he expressed....not what he looked like. Absolutely brilliant; here's the link.
Enjoy, and Namaste.
Friday, 13 June 2008
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
Lots more words ...and some more pictures too.
I've just posted an essay, which provides a bit of an overview of Traditional Japanese metalwork, over on the Iron Brush forum. Here's the link.
...and in case you missed it, I also posted a gallery of most of the tsuba I've made over the last 20 or more years. Here's the link to that collection.
Namaste, Ford
...and in case you missed it, I also posted a gallery of most of the tsuba I've made over the last 20 or more years. Here's the link to that collection.
Namaste, Ford
Friday, 6 June 2008
Can tsuba really be art?
I’m posting this response to a little discussion that’s been rumbling on, on the iron brush forum. I’m putting it here because I don’t want my opinion to be seen as “official policy” there just because I started the thing. I must admit I really do find that sort of discussion, about functionality , to be very much out of place on that forum. The Bladesmiths forum, Sword Forum International and E-budo are all far more appropriate places for such ponderings.
The only aspect of functionality that is relevant to art is what it brings to our interaction with it. I say interaction because it is a process of exploration. Of the work, and of oneself. This is where the fun lies, this process of being changed by what we study, and then, again, seeing what we're learned in a different light...and so the cycle repeats.
Some art is capable of keeping this process of re-evaluation going far longer than others...the greatest art...perhaps, never stops, as long as we don't.
To return to my babies, tsuba, there are in fact a number of practical considerations I am always working from. The plates ability to withstand a sword strike is absolutely not one of them however. I seriously doubt it ever was.
A very common guard at the time when warfare was rife in old Japan, was merely lacquered leather. Hardly bullet proof! ;)
There was also a fashion for guard-less swords. When we do see guards on older, utilitarian, swords they are often very thin, 3 or even 2mm thick. Clearly not too much concern with anything more than the bare minimum.
For me, the "practical" considerations have to do with the feel of the guard against my hand when on the hilt. I don't want a cheese grater rubbing away at my flesh The size and shape is very relevant too, I don't want it impeding my grasp of the hilt when I draw the sword.
The most easily recognised, visual, consideration is the decoration and it's placement in relation to how the sword is worn. This "display" is probably the most significant aspect of a tsuba's function. It signals the taste and sensibilities of the wearer, whether hardened warrior, officious bureaucrat or ostentatious merchant. Once these aspects are fully understood, and become unconscious, the real work of trying to sculpt your art begins.
This sort of work is not quite sculpture and not yet painting, we have far too many restrictions in that regard, but, we can have the best of both worlds...if we learn the medium well. This is what I'm engaged in, it's what excites me.
I won't argue that there are not a lot of "show off", and" parade" type tsuba in existence but just because there are millions of "chocolate box " style painters out there too doesn't mean that a painter can't still achieve something meaningful using that particular art form. So too, there have been many, truly great, artists in the miniature art form of tsuba. The language they developed is still not well known, beyond a few, very refined, connoisseurs.
As for defending myself, what is there to defend? Despite appearances, I am not trying single-handedly to preserve a tradition , I merely offer my experience and what little I do know, that works. I have tried to present my rationale in these matters too. There is not much more I can do. Traditions only survive, in a vital way, if the ground out of which they have grown is well assimilated. Only then can we say that we are working as part of a particular continuum. Anything less is just clip-art.
And by "we", I mean anyone who actually wants to try and make that journey into Classical Japanese metalwork.
Not every one is that bothered to, they may have equally valid artistic concerns that lead them elsewhere.
I must confess to a little discomfort though, at the superficial borrowing of the obvious, and most easily applied, aspects of the tradition I value so much. It is a very sophisticated language that the master metal artists of the past have left us, a language I am trying to interpret , as accurately as I am able, so that I can gain something more than merely fashionable gimmicks.
To paraphrase the 18th century Chinese writer, Shen Tsung-ch'ien ( The Art of Painting, 1781 )
The only aspect of functionality that is relevant to art is what it brings to our interaction with it. I say interaction because it is a process of exploration. Of the work, and of oneself. This is where the fun lies, this process of being changed by what we study, and then, again, seeing what we're learned in a different light...and so the cycle repeats.
Some art is capable of keeping this process of re-evaluation going far longer than others...the greatest art...perhaps, never stops, as long as we don't.
To return to my babies, tsuba, there are in fact a number of practical considerations I am always working from. The plates ability to withstand a sword strike is absolutely not one of them however. I seriously doubt it ever was.
A very common guard at the time when warfare was rife in old Japan, was merely lacquered leather. Hardly bullet proof! ;)
There was also a fashion for guard-less swords. When we do see guards on older, utilitarian, swords they are often very thin, 3 or even 2mm thick. Clearly not too much concern with anything more than the bare minimum.
For me, the "practical" considerations have to do with the feel of the guard against my hand when on the hilt. I don't want a cheese grater rubbing away at my flesh The size and shape is very relevant too, I don't want it impeding my grasp of the hilt when I draw the sword.
The most easily recognised, visual, consideration is the decoration and it's placement in relation to how the sword is worn. This "display" is probably the most significant aspect of a tsuba's function. It signals the taste and sensibilities of the wearer, whether hardened warrior, officious bureaucrat or ostentatious merchant. Once these aspects are fully understood, and become unconscious, the real work of trying to sculpt your art begins.
This sort of work is not quite sculpture and not yet painting, we have far too many restrictions in that regard, but, we can have the best of both worlds...if we learn the medium well. This is what I'm engaged in, it's what excites me.
I won't argue that there are not a lot of "show off", and" parade" type tsuba in existence but just because there are millions of "chocolate box " style painters out there too doesn't mean that a painter can't still achieve something meaningful using that particular art form. So too, there have been many, truly great, artists in the miniature art form of tsuba. The language they developed is still not well known, beyond a few, very refined, connoisseurs.
As for defending myself, what is there to defend? Despite appearances, I am not trying single-handedly to preserve a tradition , I merely offer my experience and what little I do know, that works. I have tried to present my rationale in these matters too. There is not much more I can do. Traditions only survive, in a vital way, if the ground out of which they have grown is well assimilated. Only then can we say that we are working as part of a particular continuum. Anything less is just clip-art.
And by "we", I mean anyone who actually wants to try and make that journey into Classical Japanese metalwork.
Not every one is that bothered to, they may have equally valid artistic concerns that lead them elsewhere.
I must confess to a little discomfort though, at the superficial borrowing of the obvious, and most easily applied, aspects of the tradition I value so much. It is a very sophisticated language that the master metal artists of the past have left us, a language I am trying to interpret , as accurately as I am able, so that I can gain something more than merely fashionable gimmicks.
To paraphrase the 18th century Chinese writer, Shen Tsung-ch'ien ( The Art of Painting, 1781 )
Do not slavishly copy the masters of the past, seek instead that which they sought.
Namaste, and keep tappin’
What matters...
I just watched this on youtube, it started my day off pretty well....perhaps it'll do the same for you.
Here's the link
p.s, it's not naughty at all ;-)
oops!...wrong link...that one is actually a bit naughty ( in a funny way )....but I know you'll definitely want to watch it now ;-) so I'll leave it there.
The one I meant to link to is this
It's possibly more wholesome. This was the winning entry to a competition organised by the Vancouver Film School. You can see the other 2 winners by following the links from their home page.
Enjoy.
Here's the link
p.s, it's not naughty at all ;-)
oops!...wrong link...that one is actually a bit naughty ( in a funny way )....but I know you'll definitely want to watch it now ;-) so I'll leave it there.
The one I meant to link to is this
It's possibly more wholesome. This was the winning entry to a competition organised by the Vancouver Film School. You can see the other 2 winners by following the links from their home page.
Enjoy.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
Some light entertainment...
Well I suppose if you're still here with me you deserve a treat. Here's a sequence of images, in reverse order because I'm too tired to redo them now, of some trials I made to work out the effect I was after with my dragonfly wings. The image above shows the final version but this is not one of the wings I'll actually be setting in the stone. Those ones are under way now and will hopefully be a little more delicate, and tidy. Practice, practice, practice. Oh...my son, Kyle, wants to apologise for his bitten nail, those are his fingers,he's quite embarrassed about it but his are so much more youthful looking than mine ;-)
The effect you see here is what I was after and this will be what the wings on the finished piece will look like. It's perched on a section of the iron patina I'm toying with at this point also, not sure yet......and don't bother asking me how I went about this, because I'm not telling...go figure out your own madness.
This is a brooch I made to see if my idea of cutting metal away behind the mother of pearl wing would have any effect. I think it does, it really glows when light gets behind the piece. With the gods on my side the effect on the stone will be what I imagine. I've even been thinking about having some fibre optics in the back of the stone to give the wings an " inner glow".
The silver wing is rendered in nunome-zogan and was just another little test of an idea. I think it has interesting possibilities. The body of the brooch is iron, of course.
This was the first version, and is awful, I think. I engraved the pattern into the mother of pearl, using a hand pushed scorper, then filled the lines with black urushi and polished level. It seemed a logical approach to trying to capture the feeling of the wings.The end result looks far too hard, and harsh. The actual engraving was a shambles too, which didn't help. The effect of the lacquer was to make it look like a cheap printed design. I had to also figure out an effective way of transferring the pattern onto the shell. The solution was actually obvious, and was used a great deal in the Renaissance. Well....you didn't expect me to give that secret away too... did you? ;-)
p.s, you did get it...didn't you? My clever play on the use of the word light in the title...
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
a little clarification...
I wrote the following post late last night and it wasn't really a "well thought out" statement at all. This morning, re-reading it, I've made a few minor word changes but it remains a reasonable expression of part of what I feel.
I should say at this point, that the opinion I hold here relates only to the tradition I personally have experience of. The other thing to keep in mind that this notion of "tradition" is not at all a static thing. A tradition is a living thing, it continues to evolve, and be enlivened by those who work from within it's influence. One of the points I try to make in the post that follows is the need to first absorb that influence and to understand the guiding spirit of the tradition, only then is it really possible to do your work and for it to be seen as adding to that continuum.
It might seem that this, rather strict, approach denies the student the opportunity to express their own creative urges and may even crush their emerging sense of originality. I think this is an illusion, if that urge is so easily snuffed out then I wonder how fiercely it burned in the first place. I believe the modern tendency to treat the student like some delicate and precious "new born" is far too self indulgent. It invariably results in work that is utterly self-referential and shallow. How could it possibly be any other way?
The masters of the past, who have been my inspiration and guide, didn't treat this work as fun, it wasn't a hobby. Of course, people today, particularly in the wealthier parts of the world, are able to dabble with whatever they like, and to their hearts content. And that is not a bad thing, nor would I deny them their fun. But let's not deceive ourselves, a 1000 years of tradition has a lot more value than merely being the source of some part-time amusement. That incredibly rich vein is available to anyone who is prepared to truly become part of it, and that takes a lifetimes commitment.
I should say at this point, that the opinion I hold here relates only to the tradition I personally have experience of. The other thing to keep in mind that this notion of "tradition" is not at all a static thing. A tradition is a living thing, it continues to evolve, and be enlivened by those who work from within it's influence. One of the points I try to make in the post that follows is the need to first absorb that influence and to understand the guiding spirit of the tradition, only then is it really possible to do your work and for it to be seen as adding to that continuum.
It might seem that this, rather strict, approach denies the student the opportunity to express their own creative urges and may even crush their emerging sense of originality. I think this is an illusion, if that urge is so easily snuffed out then I wonder how fiercely it burned in the first place. I believe the modern tendency to treat the student like some delicate and precious "new born" is far too self indulgent. It invariably results in work that is utterly self-referential and shallow. How could it possibly be any other way?
The masters of the past, who have been my inspiration and guide, didn't treat this work as fun, it wasn't a hobby. Of course, people today, particularly in the wealthier parts of the world, are able to dabble with whatever they like, and to their hearts content. And that is not a bad thing, nor would I deny them their fun. But let's not deceive ourselves, a 1000 years of tradition has a lot more value than merely being the source of some part-time amusement. That incredibly rich vein is available to anyone who is prepared to truly become part of it, and that takes a lifetimes commitment.
Monday, 26 May 2008
some thoughts on being a good student
It has been a while now...since I last had the urge to get all philosophical late at night. In fact it's been a while since I last had anything really heartfelt to say at all.
I'm learning that this type of intimate journal entry, sort of dialogue, and what would be the point if it weren't intimate and honest, is not quite as easy in the, apparently, impersonal atmosphere of the internet compared to my preferred format...having a decent meal followed by a good drink together.
In those convivial circumstances I have no difficulties opening my heart and revealing all my frailties, I know...you can't imagine I have any...but I do... I'm all too human, or expounding on my "grand theories". The written word is so final, there is almost no going back, it seems so absolute. I'm a particularly opinionated sort of chap, in the most reasonable sort of way...in person, honestly! And there's the rub. We're not getting getting it together, "in person". I actually really enjoy provoking an original response from those I'm engaging with...as much as I would love the same to be stimulated in me.
Naturally enough, this isn't always the preferred form of engagement on the net. If the use of the word "engagement" sounds a bit combative I make no apologies...nothing will get hurt other than ego's...so what's the big deal. Why do we take ourselves so seriously? and surely, we can separate who we are, from a bunch of vaguely constructed opinions.
I happen to be quite good at defending my opinions, but I suspect that this says more about my abilities to "box clever", than the truth of them. Similarly, I find that many opinions I encounter, and challenge, are in fact very poorly conceived. Never-the-less, we seem to be prepared to go to war for our opinions!
Recently, I was prompted by a rather unfortunately expressed thought, on my forum, to respond in a deliberately provocative way. I hope the author of that post will forgive me drawing attention to this brief exchange but he in fact did me a great service.
I don't need to elaborate on the stimulus but my response was summed up thus; "the master serves the tradition...most useful students are merely a means to that end".
I hadn't previously thought of it in this way before, my response was an almost instinctual reaction. I won't go into a messy analysis of how it is I feel this way, or even if I am "right" in this assumption. No-one told me this, as some universal, traditional truth...so where did it come from? The answer to that is obviously bound up with who I am...and that will take a long night to begin to reveal.
What immediately caught my attention with this statement, and it is sort of cheeky to quote oneself, was the ambiguity contained therein.
At first glance it seems incredibly arrogant and unfeeling. Particularly in a world where the student, who is inevitably paying for their instruction, feels that the instructor owes them something. That's the first mistake the teacher makes...he ( or she ) hands control to the student. How absurd is that? I've never charged anyone for anything I've been able to impart, perhaps I'm a fool to give away so freely what has cost me so much. Perhaps this is also why I often get the impression what I have to offer is taken so lightly. That aside, as I've not taken the kings coin...I need not bow to his whims. ( here I'm rather obscurely referring to the consumer idea that the customer is king ).
In my view, if someone seeks your teaching then they must empty their cup and be prepared to learn. There is no discussion involved. This is not a two way sort of deal...the opinions and feelings of the student are irrelevant. In time...on the odd occasion, the student may actually, eventually have something original or significant to say. But, it is a profound arrogance and display of self indulgence, for a student to think, at the very start of their journey, that they may have anything of real consequence to express, in the face of hundreds of years of the accumulated understanding of previous masters.
It's very fashionable to pay lip service to traditions of late, and we hear people humbly expressing their respect for past masters and their respective traditions. I really don't see much more that words though, it's as though it's all about association, to make us feel a sense of importance...or significance, and that demeans the past.
We really aren't that important, if we amount to anything at all in our all to brief lives it is due to so much of what has gone before us. The contemporary tendency to place the highest value, in fact the only thing worth anything, on the individual, loses sight of our tiny place in the continuity of humankind.
I am well aware that my, rather idiosyncratic, view is something of an anachronism in this age, but the way I see it, that's all the more reason to stand by it.
So,..to return to my provocative quote ( of myself...what a sneaky trick? ).
There is always a master somewhere up ahead...you'll recognise them when you aren't able to understand where he ( or she ) is coming from. That is as it should be, if you understood it all then you'd be at least as masterful. There are people out there who are pursuing excellence, they are rarely the most lovely people you'll meet, but if you recognise some small spark that draws you to them, then you must approach like a child in the face of a new and wondrous world...and maybe, just maybe...if you're very lucky, you'll get invited on a unique journey. A journey not without cost...or peril. One where you will learn all about the things you set out to explore, but most importantly...you'll learn about yourself... and it's a bloody good ride.
While on that ride you'll discover at some point that in fact the person you thought was the master is also a student, and that your objectives are not so far apart as you may have once imagined. The true reverence is when this is understood and you understand your part in the continuum.
Good night and Namaste
I'm learning that this type of intimate journal entry, sort of dialogue, and what would be the point if it weren't intimate and honest, is not quite as easy in the, apparently, impersonal atmosphere of the internet compared to my preferred format...having a decent meal followed by a good drink together.
In those convivial circumstances I have no difficulties opening my heart and revealing all my frailties, I know...you can't imagine I have any...but I do... I'm all too human, or expounding on my "grand theories". The written word is so final, there is almost no going back, it seems so absolute. I'm a particularly opinionated sort of chap, in the most reasonable sort of way...in person, honestly! And there's the rub. We're not getting getting it together, "in person". I actually really enjoy provoking an original response from those I'm engaging with...as much as I would love the same to be stimulated in me.
Naturally enough, this isn't always the preferred form of engagement on the net. If the use of the word "engagement" sounds a bit combative I make no apologies...nothing will get hurt other than ego's...so what's the big deal. Why do we take ourselves so seriously? and surely, we can separate who we are, from a bunch of vaguely constructed opinions.
I happen to be quite good at defending my opinions, but I suspect that this says more about my abilities to "box clever", than the truth of them. Similarly, I find that many opinions I encounter, and challenge, are in fact very poorly conceived. Never-the-less, we seem to be prepared to go to war for our opinions!
Recently, I was prompted by a rather unfortunately expressed thought, on my forum, to respond in a deliberately provocative way. I hope the author of that post will forgive me drawing attention to this brief exchange but he in fact did me a great service.
I don't need to elaborate on the stimulus but my response was summed up thus; "the master serves the tradition...most useful students are merely a means to that end".
I hadn't previously thought of it in this way before, my response was an almost instinctual reaction. I won't go into a messy analysis of how it is I feel this way, or even if I am "right" in this assumption. No-one told me this, as some universal, traditional truth...so where did it come from? The answer to that is obviously bound up with who I am...and that will take a long night to begin to reveal.
What immediately caught my attention with this statement, and it is sort of cheeky to quote oneself, was the ambiguity contained therein.
At first glance it seems incredibly arrogant and unfeeling. Particularly in a world where the student, who is inevitably paying for their instruction, feels that the instructor owes them something. That's the first mistake the teacher makes...he ( or she ) hands control to the student. How absurd is that? I've never charged anyone for anything I've been able to impart, perhaps I'm a fool to give away so freely what has cost me so much. Perhaps this is also why I often get the impression what I have to offer is taken so lightly. That aside, as I've not taken the kings coin...I need not bow to his whims. ( here I'm rather obscurely referring to the consumer idea that the customer is king ).
In my view, if someone seeks your teaching then they must empty their cup and be prepared to learn. There is no discussion involved. This is not a two way sort of deal...the opinions and feelings of the student are irrelevant. In time...on the odd occasion, the student may actually, eventually have something original or significant to say. But, it is a profound arrogance and display of self indulgence, for a student to think, at the very start of their journey, that they may have anything of real consequence to express, in the face of hundreds of years of the accumulated understanding of previous masters.
It's very fashionable to pay lip service to traditions of late, and we hear people humbly expressing their respect for past masters and their respective traditions. I really don't see much more that words though, it's as though it's all about association, to make us feel a sense of importance...or significance, and that demeans the past.
We really aren't that important, if we amount to anything at all in our all to brief lives it is due to so much of what has gone before us. The contemporary tendency to place the highest value, in fact the only thing worth anything, on the individual, loses sight of our tiny place in the continuity of humankind.
I am well aware that my, rather idiosyncratic, view is something of an anachronism in this age, but the way I see it, that's all the more reason to stand by it.
So,..to return to my provocative quote ( of myself...what a sneaky trick? ).
There is always a master somewhere up ahead...you'll recognise them when you aren't able to understand where he ( or she ) is coming from. That is as it should be, if you understood it all then you'd be at least as masterful. There are people out there who are pursuing excellence, they are rarely the most lovely people you'll meet, but if you recognise some small spark that draws you to them, then you must approach like a child in the face of a new and wondrous world...and maybe, just maybe...if you're very lucky, you'll get invited on a unique journey. A journey not without cost...or peril. One where you will learn all about the things you set out to explore, but most importantly...you'll learn about yourself... and it's a bloody good ride.
While on that ride you'll discover at some point that in fact the person you thought was the master is also a student, and that your objectives are not so far apart as you may have once imagined. The true reverence is when this is understood and you understand your part in the continuum.
Good night and Namaste
Saturday, 17 May 2008
The Making of the Kagamibuta, "Basho". a photo-essay
I’ve just uploaded 55 images, into an online photo album, that illustrate the making of a Kagamibuta I created last year.
The piece is titled “ Basho” after the famous Japanese haiku poet, Matsuo Basho. He took the name “Basho”, which means banana tree, in honour of a tree in his little garden which he loved. I conceived my little tribute to the poet as a “Metal Haiku”. I hoped to evoke the same sort of feeling a good haiku poem does and to craft my Kagamibuta with the same sort of delicate and careful arrangement . In fact I coined the term “Metal Haiku” as the name of a group of 12 Kagamibuta I made in 2006/7.
I’ve not offered any explanations as to the processes and techniques because I think the images are actually self explanatory. In traditional training situations there is little opportunity for the student to ask questions of his teacher so he must learn very quickly to “steal with his eyes”. By looking carefully at the images you will be able to find everything you may need to know to understand what I did.
In fact, the extreme enlargement of these images would of course not be seen my any pupil in the past…you’re seeing this as it’s really never been seen before.
I’ve included a number of different images of the completed piece because it is so difficult to capture the real feel of the object in one shot. You’ll also notice the constantly changing lighting of the images, this is to a certain extent unavoidable in a workshop situation as it would be far too time consuming to replicate the exact light each time I took an image.
The basic material of the disc is mild steel and the inlaid leaves are in 2 different alloys of a brass/bronze type called sentoku. You’ll see the selection of colours and metal I was considering using and the larger disc of metal which is actually the base of a badly damaged Meiji period vase I restored years ago. My attempt at recycling ;-). The bowl is boxwood and has been stained with potassium permanganate and tea.
Here’s the link; The Making of the Kagamibuta, "Basho".
You can view the individual images or select the slide show option. If you select a single image you’ll also be able to view a very close up shot by using the zoom feature located at the top, right ,of the area around the picture.
I hope you find this photo-essay interesting.
The piece is titled “ Basho” after the famous Japanese haiku poet, Matsuo Basho. He took the name “Basho”, which means banana tree, in honour of a tree in his little garden which he loved. I conceived my little tribute to the poet as a “Metal Haiku”. I hoped to evoke the same sort of feeling a good haiku poem does and to craft my Kagamibuta with the same sort of delicate and careful arrangement . In fact I coined the term “Metal Haiku” as the name of a group of 12 Kagamibuta I made in 2006/7.
I’ve not offered any explanations as to the processes and techniques because I think the images are actually self explanatory. In traditional training situations there is little opportunity for the student to ask questions of his teacher so he must learn very quickly to “steal with his eyes”. By looking carefully at the images you will be able to find everything you may need to know to understand what I did.
In fact, the extreme enlargement of these images would of course not be seen my any pupil in the past…you’re seeing this as it’s really never been seen before.
I’ve included a number of different images of the completed piece because it is so difficult to capture the real feel of the object in one shot. You’ll also notice the constantly changing lighting of the images, this is to a certain extent unavoidable in a workshop situation as it would be far too time consuming to replicate the exact light each time I took an image.
The basic material of the disc is mild steel and the inlaid leaves are in 2 different alloys of a brass/bronze type called sentoku. You’ll see the selection of colours and metal I was considering using and the larger disc of metal which is actually the base of a badly damaged Meiji period vase I restored years ago. My attempt at recycling ;-). The bowl is boxwood and has been stained with potassium permanganate and tea.
Here’s the link; The Making of the Kagamibuta, "Basho".
You can view the individual images or select the slide show option. If you select a single image you’ll also be able to view a very close up shot by using the zoom feature located at the top, right ,of the area around the picture.
I hope you find this photo-essay interesting.
On-line photo album
I've just been playing with a handy photograph album bit of software called "Picasa". It's offered as a free download from Google. Here's a link to some images of Japan.
I'll eventually get all of my images up there but it will take a while....this software does make the job so much easier, and quicker though.
I've also been suffering from a severe case of internetlessness for the last 2 weeks as my server ( ironically named 24-7online! ) has been playing silly buggers switching over to an apparently faster service. I'm not holding my breath...but it would be handy to be able to upload stuff without having to wait ages...and keep losing my connection.
As soon as normal service resumes I'll get some more stuff on the blog.
Namaste, Ford
I'll eventually get all of my images up there but it will take a while....this software does make the job so much easier, and quicker though.
I've also been suffering from a severe case of internetlessness for the last 2 weeks as my server ( ironically named 24-7online! ) has been playing silly buggers switching over to an apparently faster service. I'm not holding my breath...but it would be handy to be able to upload stuff without having to wait ages...and keep losing my connection.
As soon as normal service resumes I'll get some more stuff on the blog.
Namaste, Ford
Monday, 5 May 2008
Ford Hallam, a (not so) brief biography
What follows is a transcript of a talk I delivered last year while artist in residence at Hishio; a small cultural exhibition centre in the beautiful town of Katsuyama, Okayama, Japan.
I was born in June, 1963, in Munster, West Germany. My father, Brian, was a soldier in the British Army on the Rhine and my mother, Erica, had been a dancer, both ballet and contemporary, up until my birth. The first few years of my life were spent, like so many children of military personnel, shuttling between various postings in Europe. When I was four years old, my family (I’d been joined by another brother by then, Clive) immigrated to South Africa.
As a boy growing up in the Cape Province of South Africa I was always making small things, or trying to improve the appearance of the occasional toy that had been bought. Later, like many teenage boys, I graduated to building plastic model kits, something I evidently had a flair for. In my final year of high school, with the expectation that I would go to university to study law, my interest was piqued by a poster advertising evening classes in jewellery making. As it transpired, the gentleman offering these classes had just returned from London where he himself had trained. This new world of creating in metal seemed to me so exciting and multifaceted that I abandoned my father’s plans for me to become a lawyer and threw myself into my new interest.
After graduating high school I worked part-time as a barman and completed a foundation year at The Ruth Prowse art school in Cape Town. Although I was practising jewellery making and design there, I felt that the technical training I so desperately craved to be very much lacking. To remedy this I began a classical apprenticeship under a German master goldsmith, Uwe Kotter, the following year. Five years later I passed my trade test to become a fully qualified goldsmith.
It was in fact while at art school that my attention was drawn to the techniques used in the decoration of Japanese sword fittings. I still have the few pages of photocopied diagrams and instructions which one of my art tutors had copied for me from an old book on jewellery making. As it turned out these descriptions of Japanese metalwork technique were horribly inadequate, and inaccurate. Never the less, the promise of these exciting, and ancient, techniques completely captivated my imagination and so started my love affair with this unique tradition.
While still an apprentice I had made a start at trying to create tsuba but soon realized that I would need to travel to Japan to find the real craft. At that time however, it was virtually impossible to get to Japan directly from South Africa, not to mention a complete lack of any prospective introductions without which traditional Japan often remains a closed society. I imagined that London would perhaps offer some inroads. In March 1988 my youngest brother Guy and I arrived there with rucksacks on our backs and my hand tools which I carried in a small satchel.
Our second day in London was spent walking and exploring. As luck would have it we passed an interesting looking shop near the British Museum, called Nihon Token ( Japanese Sword ). Naturally, we went inside and met for the first time Mr Michael Dean. Mike recognized my interest and enthusiasm and was generous enough to invite me back. Over the next few years I made repeated visits to Mike’s shop where we spent many interesting hours studying fine metalwork and it was from Mike that I first began to learn about the more subtle aspects of Japanese craftsmanship and design.
Around this time I started to consider the possibility that I might be able to devote myself to this tradition on a full time basis. So it was in 1989 that I moved to a small farmhouse between Penzance and St Ives in Cornwall. Here, in the solitude of the countryside, I made my first chisels and began to teach myself how to carve steel. I was further encouraged in my efforts by Mr Graham Gemmell, a specialist dealer in tsuba and other fittings. I think we’d been living in Cornwall for about a year when Graham suggested that I apply for a Winston Churchill travelling fellowship.
These fellowships are quite remarkable in that they offer individuals the opportunity to travel to anywhere in the world and to study any number of subjects. The only real criteria being that the applicant have the enthusiasm and determination to succeed in their chosen project. Apparently the committee that interviewed me thought that my proposed study visit to Japan would be worth supporting. I was awarded a two month project.
The spring of that year, 1993, was quite an emotional one for me.
My first son, Kyle, was born in January, ( 7 years, to the day, after my father had died ) and there I was, suddenly a father myself, being offered the chance to pursue my dream…but having to face the prospect of being apart from my baby boy.
Once I realized that I would actually be going to Japan I began to wonder how I might get some much needed introductions to people who might be able to teach me the techniques I was so hungry for.
When I discussed this project with Mike, on the telephone, he immediately suggested that his wife, Hiroko, might know someone in Japan who might be able to help me. I think Hiroko took a small chance, but she agreed to ask her long-time friend Izumi Koshiro Sensei if he knew of anyone who might be able to help me in my attempt to study this tradition in Japan.
Izumi Sensei’s response was absolutely characteristic of the man who has so generously given me a life as an artist craftsman that I never imagined possible. He offered to teach me himself and wherever he felt any of his colleagues might be able to add to my instruction, he told me he would arrange for me to study with them in their own studios. All he asked of me was that I learn as much Japanese as possible before I came as he didn’t speak much English. The next three months, prior to my trip, were spent trying to get to grips with Japanese grammar and making lists of words relating to metalwork and art.
And so, it was autumn 1993 when I finally arrived in Japan for the first time. My visit flew by and by the end of my stay both Izumi Sensei and I had come to the decision that I would simply have to return if I was to make any significant inroads into the world of this ancient tradition.
With the support of Kashima Ikokku, a national living treasure, Izumi Sensei applied for, and received, a grant from the Japanese, Agency for Cultural Affairs on my behalf. I went back to Cornwall for Christmas and six weeks later I was back in Tokyo ready to learn more.
During my second stay in Japan I began to get a sense of the way Japanese craftsmen approach their work. This, almost gentle and intuitive application of technique and respect of material seemed to me to be very familiar, I felt as though I was coming home.
On every occasion that I stayed in Japan I was, and continue to be, very moved by the kindness and consideration that has been afforded me. Particularly, the openness and generosity that so many artists and craftspeople have shown me. My desire to learn and experience as much as possible has always been met with a remarkable degree of support.
Towards the end of this second trip it was decided that I wasn’t quite yet immersed enough in the Japanese metalworking tradition so I was offered a further two month stay later that year.
After these three very intense and condensed study periods, I moved from Cornwall to Chippenham, a town in Wiltshire. Here, I was only about an hour by car, or train, from London. Shortly after my return from Tokyo I had been contacted by a major specialist in Japanese antique metalwork, Mr Malcolm Fairley, who was keen to utilize authentic and traditional processes in the restoration of Meiji period metalwork.
Not being too sure as to how I was actually going to make a living at this point, I rather naively agreed to try and apply my newfound skills and techniques.
My first year as a restorer was terrible frustrating and painful. While I had learnt the basics of making new items, the procedures for restoring damaged, older pieces hadn’t actually been developed at all. Through a process of repeated failures and the occasional breakthrough which satisfied my rather demanding and particular client, I slowly gained a thorough understanding of the work of this remarkable tradition.
This experience was probably unique. No-one with my particular training had previously had the opportunity to handle so many varied items like these, and actually get to work on them. I was able to make the most profitable use of it all, as a consequence of my studies with Izumi Sensei.
One particularly interesting aspect of the work of the Meiji period masters is the way in which they attempted to make the transition from the kinds of product they had previously made for the home market and Japanese connoisseurs, to producing art objects intended primarily for a foreign market. The transition to a vital contemporary expression is, I believe, ongoing.
For about the next ten years or more, I worked almost exclusively on these truly remarkable works of art.
Two years ago my wife, Jo, and I were invited by Miss Barbara Warren, to Boston, to attend the opening of the new Japanese metalwork galleries in the Boston Museum of Fine Art. After we had walked into the main galleries with the tsuba and sword fittings directly ahead of us, we turned to look at the display behind us. We both had to suppress our amusement because a significant number of the 20 major works of metal art, which had been loaned to the museum for the exhibition, had at some time, to quote my wife “been on our kitchen table!”
Although the demands on my time made by my clients during this period never eased up, I was still able to explore my own aesthetic response to these processes and have slowly been working towards finding my own expression.
I had long promised myself that eventually I would reduce the amount of restoration work and devote more time to my own pieces, but there never seemed to be a quiet time for me in the antique trade. Finally, my wife and I decided that we simply had to escape… by leaving the country.
At the beginning of 2006 we moved to Cape Town and despite many obstacles and difficulties, we are now reasonably settled and I feel as though I am at long last able to be true to myself and hope to be able to produce some work that will justify the faith so many people have placed in me, particularly my teacher, Izumi Sensei.
My journey to Japan and into her long tradition of metalworking began sometime in 1981 in the Cultural History Museum in Cape Town, South Africa. Looking back on my first exposure to Japanese metalwork arts, it seems to me that initially, there were two distinct aspects that attracted me. The more obvious was the remarkable level of technical precision and skill that many examples displayed as well as the wondrous array of unimagined decorative processes.
The other aspect of these artworks that continues to affect me profoundly, was the understated elegance of design, and in some cases, a very subtle aesthetic expression, which for me verged on the spiritual.
I can well remember the sadness I felt when I learned that most authorities in the West considered these, seemingly magical, techniques lost to modern workers and were only to be seen in museums and similar antique collections. As a young man though, the exciting possibility of rediscovering these "lost treasures" was too great a challenge to resist. More than 25 years later I'm very pleased that I decide to "go and look for myself".
I have tried to enter into the spirit of my adopted tradition with a feeling of genuine reverence and I believe that this attitude has served me well.
The Japanese metalworking tradition, which has been extant for more than a thousand years, is potentially the richest source of technique and inspiration available to contemporary art-workers in metal.
It is my contention that only when a craftsperson is sufficiently grounded in the technology of their medium, will they do full justice both to themselves and their material, in relation to their creative endeavours.
One particular aspect of this tradition which I feel is a valuable example; is the relentless pursuit of technical perfection. It is probably exactly this aspect of Japanese metalwork (and most other tradition based crafts of Japan) which represents the greatest challenge, or barrier, to Western craftspeople, schooled in the belief that skill, is at best, merely a means to an end.
While it would be perhaps naïve to rely solely on technique, I believe that the effort required in the process of acquiring these skills, results in a deeper and more sophisticated appreciation, of both the medium and one’s own creative response.
I believe that for Classical Japanese metalwork to survive into the 21st century, it needs to continue to evolve, just as it has done for hundreds of years. To remain true to the guiding spirit of this craft however, we must be firmly rooted in the past while extending our vision and efforts towards a more contemporary and vital expression of the arts of metal.
Katsuyama, Japan / Cape Town, South Africa
December 2006
I was born in June, 1963, in Munster, West Germany. My father, Brian, was a soldier in the British Army on the Rhine and my mother, Erica, had been a dancer, both ballet and contemporary, up until my birth. The first few years of my life were spent, like so many children of military personnel, shuttling between various postings in Europe. When I was four years old, my family (I’d been joined by another brother by then, Clive) immigrated to South Africa.
As a boy growing up in the Cape Province of South Africa I was always making small things, or trying to improve the appearance of the occasional toy that had been bought. Later, like many teenage boys, I graduated to building plastic model kits, something I evidently had a flair for. In my final year of high school, with the expectation that I would go to university to study law, my interest was piqued by a poster advertising evening classes in jewellery making. As it transpired, the gentleman offering these classes had just returned from London where he himself had trained. This new world of creating in metal seemed to me so exciting and multifaceted that I abandoned my father’s plans for me to become a lawyer and threw myself into my new interest.
After graduating high school I worked part-time as a barman and completed a foundation year at The Ruth Prowse art school in Cape Town. Although I was practising jewellery making and design there, I felt that the technical training I so desperately craved to be very much lacking. To remedy this I began a classical apprenticeship under a German master goldsmith, Uwe Kotter, the following year. Five years later I passed my trade test to become a fully qualified goldsmith.
It was in fact while at art school that my attention was drawn to the techniques used in the decoration of Japanese sword fittings. I still have the few pages of photocopied diagrams and instructions which one of my art tutors had copied for me from an old book on jewellery making. As it turned out these descriptions of Japanese metalwork technique were horribly inadequate, and inaccurate. Never the less, the promise of these exciting, and ancient, techniques completely captivated my imagination and so started my love affair with this unique tradition.
While still an apprentice I had made a start at trying to create tsuba but soon realized that I would need to travel to Japan to find the real craft. At that time however, it was virtually impossible to get to Japan directly from South Africa, not to mention a complete lack of any prospective introductions without which traditional Japan often remains a closed society. I imagined that London would perhaps offer some inroads. In March 1988 my youngest brother Guy and I arrived there with rucksacks on our backs and my hand tools which I carried in a small satchel.
Our second day in London was spent walking and exploring. As luck would have it we passed an interesting looking shop near the British Museum, called Nihon Token ( Japanese Sword ). Naturally, we went inside and met for the first time Mr Michael Dean. Mike recognized my interest and enthusiasm and was generous enough to invite me back. Over the next few years I made repeated visits to Mike’s shop where we spent many interesting hours studying fine metalwork and it was from Mike that I first began to learn about the more subtle aspects of Japanese craftsmanship and design.
Around this time I started to consider the possibility that I might be able to devote myself to this tradition on a full time basis. So it was in 1989 that I moved to a small farmhouse between Penzance and St Ives in Cornwall. Here, in the solitude of the countryside, I made my first chisels and began to teach myself how to carve steel. I was further encouraged in my efforts by Mr Graham Gemmell, a specialist dealer in tsuba and other fittings. I think we’d been living in Cornwall for about a year when Graham suggested that I apply for a Winston Churchill travelling fellowship.
These fellowships are quite remarkable in that they offer individuals the opportunity to travel to anywhere in the world and to study any number of subjects. The only real criteria being that the applicant have the enthusiasm and determination to succeed in their chosen project. Apparently the committee that interviewed me thought that my proposed study visit to Japan would be worth supporting. I was awarded a two month project.
The spring of that year, 1993, was quite an emotional one for me.
My first son, Kyle, was born in January, ( 7 years, to the day, after my father had died ) and there I was, suddenly a father myself, being offered the chance to pursue my dream…but having to face the prospect of being apart from my baby boy.
Once I realized that I would actually be going to Japan I began to wonder how I might get some much needed introductions to people who might be able to teach me the techniques I was so hungry for.
When I discussed this project with Mike, on the telephone, he immediately suggested that his wife, Hiroko, might know someone in Japan who might be able to help me. I think Hiroko took a small chance, but she agreed to ask her long-time friend Izumi Koshiro Sensei if he knew of anyone who might be able to help me in my attempt to study this tradition in Japan.
Izumi Sensei’s response was absolutely characteristic of the man who has so generously given me a life as an artist craftsman that I never imagined possible. He offered to teach me himself and wherever he felt any of his colleagues might be able to add to my instruction, he told me he would arrange for me to study with them in their own studios. All he asked of me was that I learn as much Japanese as possible before I came as he didn’t speak much English. The next three months, prior to my trip, were spent trying to get to grips with Japanese grammar and making lists of words relating to metalwork and art.
And so, it was autumn 1993 when I finally arrived in Japan for the first time. My visit flew by and by the end of my stay both Izumi Sensei and I had come to the decision that I would simply have to return if I was to make any significant inroads into the world of this ancient tradition.
With the support of Kashima Ikokku, a national living treasure, Izumi Sensei applied for, and received, a grant from the Japanese, Agency for Cultural Affairs on my behalf. I went back to Cornwall for Christmas and six weeks later I was back in Tokyo ready to learn more.
During my second stay in Japan I began to get a sense of the way Japanese craftsmen approach their work. This, almost gentle and intuitive application of technique and respect of material seemed to me to be very familiar, I felt as though I was coming home.
On every occasion that I stayed in Japan I was, and continue to be, very moved by the kindness and consideration that has been afforded me. Particularly, the openness and generosity that so many artists and craftspeople have shown me. My desire to learn and experience as much as possible has always been met with a remarkable degree of support.
Towards the end of this second trip it was decided that I wasn’t quite yet immersed enough in the Japanese metalworking tradition so I was offered a further two month stay later that year.
After these three very intense and condensed study periods, I moved from Cornwall to Chippenham, a town in Wiltshire. Here, I was only about an hour by car, or train, from London. Shortly after my return from Tokyo I had been contacted by a major specialist in Japanese antique metalwork, Mr Malcolm Fairley, who was keen to utilize authentic and traditional processes in the restoration of Meiji period metalwork.
Not being too sure as to how I was actually going to make a living at this point, I rather naively agreed to try and apply my newfound skills and techniques.
My first year as a restorer was terrible frustrating and painful. While I had learnt the basics of making new items, the procedures for restoring damaged, older pieces hadn’t actually been developed at all. Through a process of repeated failures and the occasional breakthrough which satisfied my rather demanding and particular client, I slowly gained a thorough understanding of the work of this remarkable tradition.
This experience was probably unique. No-one with my particular training had previously had the opportunity to handle so many varied items like these, and actually get to work on them. I was able to make the most profitable use of it all, as a consequence of my studies with Izumi Sensei.
One particularly interesting aspect of the work of the Meiji period masters is the way in which they attempted to make the transition from the kinds of product they had previously made for the home market and Japanese connoisseurs, to producing art objects intended primarily for a foreign market. The transition to a vital contemporary expression is, I believe, ongoing.
For about the next ten years or more, I worked almost exclusively on these truly remarkable works of art.
Two years ago my wife, Jo, and I were invited by Miss Barbara Warren, to Boston, to attend the opening of the new Japanese metalwork galleries in the Boston Museum of Fine Art. After we had walked into the main galleries with the tsuba and sword fittings directly ahead of us, we turned to look at the display behind us. We both had to suppress our amusement because a significant number of the 20 major works of metal art, which had been loaned to the museum for the exhibition, had at some time, to quote my wife “been on our kitchen table!”
Although the demands on my time made by my clients during this period never eased up, I was still able to explore my own aesthetic response to these processes and have slowly been working towards finding my own expression.
I had long promised myself that eventually I would reduce the amount of restoration work and devote more time to my own pieces, but there never seemed to be a quiet time for me in the antique trade. Finally, my wife and I decided that we simply had to escape… by leaving the country.
At the beginning of 2006 we moved to Cape Town and despite many obstacles and difficulties, we are now reasonably settled and I feel as though I am at long last able to be true to myself and hope to be able to produce some work that will justify the faith so many people have placed in me, particularly my teacher, Izumi Sensei.
My journey to Japan and into her long tradition of metalworking began sometime in 1981 in the Cultural History Museum in Cape Town, South Africa. Looking back on my first exposure to Japanese metalwork arts, it seems to me that initially, there were two distinct aspects that attracted me. The more obvious was the remarkable level of technical precision and skill that many examples displayed as well as the wondrous array of unimagined decorative processes.
The other aspect of these artworks that continues to affect me profoundly, was the understated elegance of design, and in some cases, a very subtle aesthetic expression, which for me verged on the spiritual.
I can well remember the sadness I felt when I learned that most authorities in the West considered these, seemingly magical, techniques lost to modern workers and were only to be seen in museums and similar antique collections. As a young man though, the exciting possibility of rediscovering these "lost treasures" was too great a challenge to resist. More than 25 years later I'm very pleased that I decide to "go and look for myself".
I have tried to enter into the spirit of my adopted tradition with a feeling of genuine reverence and I believe that this attitude has served me well.
The Japanese metalworking tradition, which has been extant for more than a thousand years, is potentially the richest source of technique and inspiration available to contemporary art-workers in metal.
It is my contention that only when a craftsperson is sufficiently grounded in the technology of their medium, will they do full justice both to themselves and their material, in relation to their creative endeavours.
One particular aspect of this tradition which I feel is a valuable example; is the relentless pursuit of technical perfection. It is probably exactly this aspect of Japanese metalwork (and most other tradition based crafts of Japan) which represents the greatest challenge, or barrier, to Western craftspeople, schooled in the belief that skill, is at best, merely a means to an end.
While it would be perhaps naïve to rely solely on technique, I believe that the effort required in the process of acquiring these skills, results in a deeper and more sophisticated appreciation, of both the medium and one’s own creative response.
I believe that for Classical Japanese metalwork to survive into the 21st century, it needs to continue to evolve, just as it has done for hundreds of years. To remain true to the guiding spirit of this craft however, we must be firmly rooted in the past while extending our vision and efforts towards a more contemporary and vital expression of the arts of metal.
Katsuyama, Japan / Cape Town, South Africa
December 2006
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