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8 Style Revisited I n the preceding chapter, we saw how Matabei drew themes important to the machishu. In chapter 6 we considered the biographical evidence identifying him with this group. Thus by now we have considerable evidence identifying Matabei with the machishu, but one problem with this identi¤cation is the understanding of this artist current among scholars today. As noted in chapter 2 most specialists in the study of Matabei since the time of Kishida have differentiated between his subject matter and his style, holding the former to have links with court culture and the latter with commoner culture. Thus, while Tsuji, Narazaki, and others might agree with Matabei’s identi¤cation as a machishu in that they see his subject matter as similar to that of Sôtatsu, they might also disagree with it in that they view his style as differing from that of Sôtatsu in its relationship to Ukiyo-e. In chapter 3 we saw that Matabei’s art does relate to genre painting, and so to Ukiyo-e, but if certain aspects of his manner of painting distinguish his work from that of Sôtatsu, others relate him to this artist. The style of Matabei is far more complex than chapter 3 would lead one to believe. Indeed, the key word for it may be paradoxical. Matabei painted classical paintings, and classicism is supposed to be aristocratic, courtly, for the few not the many. But therein lies the paradox: Matabei’s classical paintings are easily accessible, undemanding, for both the few and the many. Simultaneously accessible and inaccessible, a bridge between high and low, Matabei’s style of painting could only belong to an artist who served the court and the commoners simultaneously, that is, one inherently machishu. 211 Writing Style One of the most characteristic features of Matabei’s style of painting reveals itself when we compare his artworks, once again, to his writings. A key feature of Matabei’s writing style is apparent in the passage from his travel diary, A Record of Travel through the Provinces, where he nostalgically discusses his youth in Kyoto, a subject that leads him to talk about waka poetry. Translated literally, the passage reads: What is called waka began in the age of the gods and is not limited to [expressing] people’s feelings, for it is said, “No nightingale crying in the cherries and no frog living in the water does not make poems.” “Poetry makes people’s hearts its seed and so steeps the words that blossom forth in scent and in color.” The Masaki vines grow long, and continuous are the tracks of the bird.1 The lines set off by quotation marks are references to the Collection of Japanese Poems from Ancient and Modern Times (Kokin wakashû), completed circa 905. The last sentence is not a direct quotation from that source, nor any other, so far as I can determine. The length of Masaki vines and the footprints of birds seem most incongruous in the context of Matabei’s previous discussion of waka poetry, but the sentence can also be rendered: “long has the way of poetry been transmitted, and such writing is without end.” This second, freer rendering (which is given in the translation of this text in appendix II) is possible because Masaki vines are a symbol of poetry, a fact apparent from the many anthologies of verse that use the name of this plant in or as their title.2 Titling poetic anthologies The Masaki Vine, in turn, became popular after playwright Komparu Zenchiku (1404?–1470?) called the plant the “Teika vine” in his Noh play Teika. This play tells of the unrequited love of the poetess Shokushinaishinno (12th– 13th century) for poet Fujiwara Teika. The passion of Shokushinaishinno supposedly survived her death, transforming itself into a Masaki vine that overturned her gravestone . Consequently, since bird tracks are a popular metaphor for writing in China and Japan, the meaning of the initially cryptic last sentence of the passage from Matabei’s diary is clear once its references have been elucidated. The line without explanation, however, is far more revealing of Matabei’s writing style, for it shows how much he relied upon his readers to have a broad familiarity with the classics. That is to say, Matabei requires—no, demands—such knowledge of those who would understand his diary in all its subtlety. To readers who take this work seriously, seeking to comprehend all that it has to...

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