Reflections on Zenga

Stephen Addiss,
The University of Richmond

It has now been thirty-five years since I first began to study Zenga, the word that describes
Zen painting and calligraphy from 1600 to the present day. There have been many changes
in the understanding and acceptance of Zenga during that time, both in Japan and the
outside world, prompting me to offer my recent reflections on the subject.

When I first became interested in Zenga, it was regarded somewhat suspiciously by most
academics. It did not have the prestige of Muromachi ink painting, which was highly
admired both for its evocative nature and for the high skill levels of the artists, and it
seemed to fall somewhere outside the mainstream of Japanese art of the Edo period and
later. There were several Japanese experts in Zenga, including Takeuchi Naoji (who wrote
a splendid book on Hakuin while working at the Tokyo National Museum), but Zenga did
not often appear in standard books on Japanese art or Japanese painting, and one
connoisseur that I knew in Kyoto went so far as to say it was "not art." Why was this so?

First, Zenga did not often show the technical expertise that had graced Muromachi ink
painting, when artists such as Sesshu were to some extent professional painters. Because of
the high demand for Zen art by shoguns, daimyo, wealthy samurai and merchants (Zen
paintings were even used in trade with China), Zen art was done by monks who could
devote most of their time to this occupation and often worked in temple ateliers. In
contrast, the monks who created Zenga after 1600 were almost always Zen Masters who
were primarily devoted to supervising temples and teaching students. There was no longer
a broad scope of patronage for this art, but instead the works were given directly to
followers of the Zen Masters, including both monks and lay pupils. As a result, the
paintings tended to become much more simple, and the Zen message more important, than
had been true before 1600.

Second, Zen after 1600 did not hold the great cultural sway that it had been given in the
Muromachi period. Not that all or most of the Japanese elite- government leaders, samurai,
and rich merchants- had been believers in Zen, since Pure Land and Esoteric sects were
highly patronized. Nevertheless, the cultural ideals associated with Zen had dominated
Japanese life; education, government advising, the tea ceremony, and even foreign trade
were in the hands of Zen monks. After the Edo period began, however, the Japanese
government gradually turned to Confucian scholars for its advisors and teachers, and Zen
became just one element of a surprisingly pluralistic society. For an example in the world
of art, there was now patronage for Kano and Unkoku painting by the shogunate; Tosa
painting by courtiers; Rimpa and Maruyama-Shijo painting by merchants; Nanga (literati)
painting by educated Confucians; traditional Buddhist painting by non-Zen temple monks;
and ukiyo-e painting by townsmen. In the view of many scholars, Zenga was a minor and
somewhat peculiar offshoot of what had once been a glorious Japanese artistic tradition.
In the past thirty-five years, that view has changed. Instead of demeaning Zenga for what it
was not, it began to be admired for what it was, the direct visual expression of the most
important Zen Masters of the past four hundred years. It is rare in history that the leading
religious leaders are also the artists; imagine if the pope had painted the Sistine Chapel
himself instead of asking Michelangelo! But whether one studies Zen history or Zen art of
the past four hundred years, the same names emerge as the most significant masters, with
Hakuin at the forefront and also including Takuan, Bankei, and Torei. Viewing Zenga
therefore becomes a form of communication with the great Zen Masters of recent
centuries. Furthermore, bold simplicity instead of stress on technical skill can lead to great
immediacy of impact, and Zen Masters were not shy about using dramatic brushwork,
popular subjects such as animals and folklore themes, and even humor in order to make
their art accessible to the public.

Another change that I have seen take place is the increased interest in calligraphy,
including Zen calligraphy, by younger collectors, scholars, and the broader art public.
What was once considered too arcane for Westerners is now a legitimate field of interest,
study, and enjoyment. Perhaps the background in abstract expressionism and action
painting, that we now take for granted as part of our heritage, has influenced this change;
there is no question that calligraphy is now a good deal more popular in the West than ever
before.

The study of Zen art has also interacted with historical studies of Zen. Scholars in recent
decades have rediscovered the importance of Hakuin, Bankei and Torei in religious history,
and there has also been a movement to downplay the descriptive and philosophical texts by
such writers as D. T. Suzuki in favor of studying Zen as an ongoing institution, depending
upon temple training and direct transmission from Master to pupil for its core of being. In
the Rinzai sect, for example, it has become clear that the training methods established by
Hakuin and his pupils have been absolutely vital to the continuation of Zen as an active
force in Japanese religious life. The result of these changes is that Zenga, including both
painting and calligraphy, is now appearing more and more often in standard books on
Japanese art and culture, is being shown in large-scale exhibitions, and is being collected
seriously by both private connoisseurs and (more slowly) by public institutions. Westerners
have played a leading part in this development; Kurt Brasch was an influential pioneering
scholar, and his book Zenga (published in both German and Japanese) is still an important
text in the field. I myself was pleased that my book The "Art of Zen" was translated into
French ("L'art Zen"), and that it has recently been reissued in paperback.

How else has the understanding of Zenga changed? One may ask whether there has been
some reconsideration concerning which Zen monk-artists were the most important. In
general, I would have to answer that the previously well-known names have remained in
the forefront, including Takuan, Bankei, Hakuin, and Torei as well as Sengai, Ryokan, and
Jiun (the latter actually a Shingon monk who studied Zen and created powerful Zenga).
However, another development has taken place recently that is parallel to what has
happened in the study of other Japanese arts: there has been a greatly increased attention
to the works of the past century.
For example, we have recently witnessed a boom in interest for the paintings and
calligraphy of Nantembo (1839-1925), who now must be considered among the leading
historical monk-artists of Japan. Recently the young American scholar Audrey Yoshiko
Seo has studied other modern masters, and her work now appears in a major exhibition
and book entitled "The Art of Twentieth-Century Zen" (see the end of this article for
information). In her research she has discovered that there have been many fascinating and
creative Zen Masters during this century that deserve to stand with their artistic and
spiritual ancestors, including Mokurai (1854-1930), Yamamoto Gempo (1867-1963), Seki
Seisetsu (1877-1945), Deiryu (1895-1954), and Shibayama (1894-1974). Her exhibition ends
with a contemporary Zen Master who creates extremely strong calligraphy, Fukushima
Keido (born 1933), currently the abbot of Tofuku-ji in Kyoto.

I was invited to write one of the chapters in Dr. Seo's book, and so I studied Soto sect
monastics of this century including Nishiari Bokuzan (1821-1910) as well as the wandering
monk and haiku poet Santoka (1882-1940). Perhaps most fascinating of all was the Zen nun
Kojima Kendo (1898-1995), who successfully fought for the rights of female monastics in
the Soto sect, led a training center and taught many followers, founded an orphanage after
the Second World War, and took up calligraphy after she broke her hip at age ninety-two.

As it happens, Zenga has usually been done by

Masters at an advanced age (Hakuin's "early
works" are those done in his sixties), but I do
not know of a parallel to Kojima creating works
almost entirely in her mid-nineties. She worked
most frequently on the square poem-cards
called shikishi, and one example from her
ninety-sixth year shows the strength of spirit
that she maintained throughout her long life
(fig. 1). The text is the Zen phrase "Mu ichi
butsu (Not one thing)" and Kojima keeps a
steady level of negative space within and well as
between the three characters, so that the three
Figure 1 words become unified. But is this calligraphy
"one thing" or "not one thing"?
Before closing, it may be instructive to compare
traditional Zenga with a more recent example of the
same subject. Portraits of Daruma (Bodhidharma), the
first patriarch of Zen, represent the homage of Zen
Masters to their spiritual ancestor, but they also signify
each monk-artist's understanding and visualization of
meditation. Hakuin Ekaku's image of Daruma, painted
a few years before his death in 1768 (fig. 2), has a
brooding intensity that is enlivened by subtle ranges of
ink tones. The body of the patriarch is simply rendered
in a few strokes (including a hint of the character for
heart/mind at his throat), so our attention is directed to
the face, and particularly the wide inwardly-staring
eyes. The inscription consists of two four-character
lines attributed to Daruma that sum up the Zen
experience:

Directly pointing to the human heart/mind

See your own nature and become Buddha
Figure 2

In comparison to the image by Hakuin, the Daruma by

Yuzen Gentatsu (also known as Sanshoken, 1842-1918)
follows the same compositional scheme but expresses a
very different mood (fig. 3). Heavy strokes of black ink,
mostly wet and fuzzing, describe the robe, the
eyebrows, eyes, and the sides of Daruma's mouth, while
thinner strokes in light gray complete the face of the
patriarch. The inscription is merely four characters:

See your own nature and become Buddha

Figure 3

While Hakuin's Daruma is fierce, Yuzen's seems more melancholy. The eyebrows slant
down rather than upwards, and the figure seems hunched into his robe in the lower part of
the composition rather than dominating the center. Yet Yuzen's work has great expressive
power which testifies to his own Zen experience. Living in an age when Buddhism was
struggling, he was one of the Zen Masters who helped continue the traditionally strict
training of monks while rebuilding temples that had fallen into serious disrepair during the
government suppression of Buddhism in the early Meiji period. Yuzen's life was difficult,
and his view of the rapidly changing world around him is one of the elements that is
expressed in his paintings. Nevertheless, his own personality and profound Zen experiences
are the most significant factors in his works that combine power, depth of spirit, and a
wonderful touch of humor. The future of Zenga seems to be assured. Masters such as
Fukushima Keido continue to find that ink painting and calligraphy offer an opportunity
for a traditional Zen activity that reaches through time and space to viewers in many parts
of the world. The exhibition prepared by Audrey Yoshiko Seo will bring a fascinating
century of Zen art to the public, and I have no doubt that future generations of collectors
and scholars will find Zenga to be a marvelous field of study and enjoyment.

The book-catalogue "The Art of Twentieth Century Zen" is published by Shambhala

Publications, Boston

Captions:
1. Kojima Kendo (1898-1995), Mu Ichi Butsu Shikishi (1993) Ink on paper, 26.8 x 24 cm.
Private Collection
2. Hakuin Ekaku (1685-1768), Daruma Ink on paper, 128.8 x 55.3 cm. Chikusei Collection
3. Yuzen Gentatsu (1841-1918), Daruma Ink on paper, 80.2 x 32.5 cm. Hosei-an Collection

 
This exhibition is an introduction to the
history of Zen influence on Western
painting and printmaking.  Many will be
surprised by how widespread the influence
has been.  It followed after a general
interest in Buddhism that in the late 19th
century was more popular in the United
States and Europe than most people realize.

There are three parts to the exhibition.  In

the introductory galleries are traditional Zen
artists of remarkable spontaneity such as
Genko, Tesshu and Bunsho, along with
indications of the first Western artists to be
inspired by Buddhist art a century ago. 
This traditional Zen group includes
Shunryu Suzuki Roshi, founding abbot of
San Francisco's Zen Center, the first Zen
monastery in America.  The most famous
work in the first gallery is a Zen circle,
or enso, brushed by Suzuki Roshi. 
Rendered with a single stroke, the enso has
for centuries been regarded as a
quintessential Zen symbol.  Representing
the simultaneous reality of spirit and matter,
everything and nothing, the spirit of this
symbol has inspired many modern artists.
Kasumi Bunsho Roshi
Patience, 20th century
In the middle galleries are European Ink on paper, mounted on silk
surrealists who matured during the 1920s Collection:  David & Alfred Smart Museum
and '30s, such as Joan Miro, S.W. Hayter University of Chicago
and Gordon Onslow Ford, as well as Mark Gift of Brooks McCormick, Jr.
Tobey and Morris Graves, then abstract
expressionists such as Jackson Pollock,
Willem de Kooning, Robert Motherwell,
and Franz Kline.  Partly under oriental
influence, these Americans made new
modes of expression with abstract
spontaneous gestures during the 1940s and
'50s.  Zen influence on artists was
especially strong during this period.  Then
followed the popular Zen boom of the
1960s and '70s.

 
The last galleries focus on notable figures of the San Francisco Bay Area such as Sam Francis,
one of the first Bay Area artists to gain an international reputation, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the
poet-painter who became the Poet Laurate of San Francisco, Sabro Hasegawa, who introduced
Zen art to many painters in San Francisco and New York, and Alan Watts, who introduced Zen
to thousands of people by means of books, radio and television.  

Watts also taught at the legendary Academy of Asian Studies in San Francisco, as did Hasegawa
and the Zen master Hodo Tobase.  What took place at this unique graduate school of East-West
studies contributed to the history of American culture.  In the popular press, San Francisco came
to be called the capital of new consciousness, as many young people turned away from
materialism and consumerism toward ancient wisdom.

Some think the influence of Zen on art, poetry, and music in the Bay Area disappeared after the
Zen boom.  Actually, that influence has remained very much alive.  Suggesting the range of this
continuing dynamic is work made in Oakland during the 1980s by John Cage who transmitted
the spirit of Zen to generations of musical and visual artists, as well as work by the painter-
scholar Kasuaki Tanahashi, who lives in Berkeley and is one of the best known Zen artists alive
today.

There were many degrees of Zen influence, some superficial, some deep.  Some were only
formal influences.  Some did not go beyond a fascination with the artistic potential of
spontaneous brush-strokes to uncover the philosophy which animates this kind of brushwork. 
Some did.  What did they find?  Buddhists understand we do not have to die to find lasting
peace inside ourselves, that each of us can realize our Buddha-nature, our unconditioned
consciousness, here and now.

When this transformation of consciousness takes place, what changes occur?  How are we
different?  We are enlightened.  It is said that as enlightened individuals we are totally aware of
the moment, no conceptualizing experience, but being fully present in every experience. 
Unattached, we stand firmly between the experience of everything and nothing, holding on to
neither.  We "kiss the joy as it flies," to quote William Blake.  We continuously act directly,
spontaneously, fearlessly and lovingly.  According to the teachings of some Zen masters,
selfishness will disappear, and our every thought, word and deed will be an act of love.  We will
work for the well-being of all humanity.

This is not to suggest all the artists in this exhibition were enlightened.  Most of them were not
Buddhists, and did not practice traditional meditation.  Very few were religious in any
traditional way.  They were reaching beyond tradition for new forms.  However, most of these
artists were engaged in a spiritual quest, a secular search for wholeness, and most of them
regarded the process of making art as a kind of meditation.  Zen was one of many spiritual
inspirations for modernists over the decades, along with Alchemy, Tantra, Taoism, Theosophy,
Shamanism, etc.  In short, a majority of the artists in this exhibition did go beyond merely
formal influences into the transpersonal psychology behind the forms.

To one degree or another, they held up Zen goals as ideals and moved towards those ideals in
their work by means of the meditative practice of making spontaneous gestures.  Trying to set
aside the rational side of their minds and trust the power of their intuition, the artists attempted
to go beyond their mind-enclosed "egos" and compose spontaneously from a deeper dimension
of consciousness.  Some called this process "spontaneous unreasoning."  They were not trying to
imitate Zen art.  Each of these artists took the idea of making spontaneous gestures in the
direction of his or her own sensibility, as they searched for authentic being.

Zen would have it no other way.  While some forms of Buddhism stress deities, Zen does not. 
Therefore Zen is often referred to by some as a philosophy rather than a religion.  The focus is
on experience, not words or beliefs.  The practice of Zen meditation might be thought of as a
return to unconditioned awareness after a total transformation of the psychological structure of
the mind.

It was a struggle for some modern artists to become themselves, a great struggle.  From a
Freudian viewpoint, the "ego" and rationalizing mind does not give up control easily.  The
painting and calligraphy of Zen masters does not show signs of struggle, only pure spontaneity. 
They have moved past the monumental struggle to be free from they tyranny of the "ego".  They
are free.  And they do not think of making works of art.  They simply brush as naturally as they
breathe.

Western art, under the influence of Zen ideals and painterly techniques, primarily has been a
record of painful, heroic efforts toward the finding of true freedom, sometimes with moments of
luminosity breaking through.

Lanier Graham, Director

University Art Gallery
California State University, Hayward

There are lessons to be learned from the Buddhist masters whose work makes up “The Art of
20th Century Zen” at the Japan Society.

HE PLAYFUL, ICONOCLASTIC GLANCE OF ZEN often illuminates postwar

culture. Anyone who knows something of Zen will enjoy the “living brush” of Franz
Kline, for example, and smile at the mischief of John Cage and the street antics of
Robert Rauschenberg.
At the same time, the American approach to this Japanese sect is often superficial and
amounts to a kind of sandbox Zen: the profound freedoms of the practice are claimed
without much understanding of their foundation. That Zen Buddhism is actually a
rigorous religion frequently strikes the contemporary mind as old-fashioned and irrelevant
—a vestigial inconvenience.  “The Art of 20th Century Zen” at the Japan Society, a survey
of the work of fourteen Zen masters of the modern era in Japan, offers a stimulating
contrast to this sweat-free version of the religion—one with provocative implications for
the life of Zen in American culture.  
Organized by Audrey Yoshiko Seo and Stephen Addiss for the Marsh Art Gallery at the
University of Richmond, the exhibit begins with the near-extinction of Zen in late-
nineteenth-century Japan. The nationalist government of the period, eager to celebrate the
homegrown Shinto religion, persecuted Buddhist. These difficult times helped strengthen
Zen's resolve, however, and some remarkable leaders—notably Nakahara Nantenbo (1839-
1925)—arose to rebuild the tattered order. The show's catalogue gives life to this struggle
by telling the story of each of the masters. In addition to public burdens, for example, many
suffered from serious personal difficulties. Some had painful childhoods. Some were
probably alcoholics. A monk named Taneda Santoka (1182-1940) could not stay long in one
place. He wandered the country, often displaying a wry sense of humor. A characteristic
line of Santoka's is "Winter rain—I'm not dead yet."

It was the years of disciplined monastic practice that gave each beleaguered Zen master his
idiosyncratic strength. Each depended upon an intense relationship with a living master,
who encouraged fortitude in meditation and a laborious wrestling with the koans—the Zen
riddles and paradoxes designed to help monks transcend their attachment to the illusions
of logic. Each took inspiration from the historical example set by predecessors in an ancient
tradition. For these monks, Zen was an experience, not a teaching—a way of living rather
than an art. They were not trained artists, but began working with the brush late in life.
They did not fear awkwardness or strive to make "good" or skillful art; their intention was
simply to demonstrate, after years of struggle, the experience of an enlightened mind. This
gives their work a different air from that found in most Zen-inspired art in the West.

One-Stroke Daruma, by a master named Shoun (1848-

1922), could almost be the work of a radical follower of
Franz Kline—until you look more closely. A monk
celebrated for his concentration and determination,
Daruma meditated for nine years staring at a wall.
Shoun captures his essence with one long, curling
sweep of an ink-laden brush; the use of this "one
stroke" suggests both Daruma's unbroken
concentration and the fleetingness of time. The
crudeness of his form, seen from the back, evokes his
still, mountainlike solidarity; so do the heavy passages
of ink at the bottom and top of his body. But the brush
also skitters across the surface at certain points: This
monk had a quick mind and a light heart. The line
seems to coil inward, as meditation does, creating a
circle—a Zen symbol of enlightenment—within a
circle. One the top of the image, Shoun has written:

The old wall-gazer's form

seen from behind—
springtime of flowers.
Shoun portrayed the old wall-gazer as solid and earthy. But his calligraphy as he writes out
the poem is fluid, evanescent and flowerlike. Contemplating the rootedness of Daruma, in
short, will help lead the viewer to the joyful springtime of enlightenment.

Zen's appeal to the West is not hard to fathom: The values on display in this exhibit echo
many of the existential concerns of modern culture. Like much postwar art, Zen celebrates
spontaneity and simplicity. It enjoys the casual, the childish, the tossed-off. (At first glance,
Shoun's One-Stroke Daruma looks like nothing—the sort of nothing that can become
everything.) It challenges traditional standards of competence. It prefers eccentrics to
pedants. The deepest beguilement of Zen, however, is the escape it promises from certain
contemporary prisons. In particular, the prison of narcissism. A Zen master finds his
individuality only by transcending the self: The works here are full of quirky personality,
yet stripped of any swagger and strut. In Shoun's rough scrawl, there is no feeling sorry for
oneself, no luxurious or aestheticizing self-indulgence—no complaint or disappointment or
in-your-face anger. And no bitter taste of ashes, as there is in the existentialism of the
fifties. Only a joy that may be impossible to attain without religious rigor rarely found in
New Age Zen.

In this regard, the iconoclasm of religious Zen is particularly interesting. A picture like
Shoun's One-Stroke Daruma actually contains a measure of humor. Although Daruma was
a founder of Zen, he is often respectfully mimicked; a nine-year meditation is ridiculously
admirable. No other religion contains this vein of mischief or can convey such reverence
without becoming reverential. (Imagine a Catholic artist teasing Saint Peter or giving the
pope a poke in the ribs.) In religious Zen, iconoclastic shock not only awakens seekers from
pretty platitudes but also prompts them to embrace life in full. While going through the
exhibit, I kept contrasting the furious and showy Piss Christ of Andres Serrano, who
achieved notoriety when he sank a crucifix in urine, with a famous story told about a Zen
master of the tenth century. Asked by a starry-eyed student, "What is the Buddha like?",
the master answered: "A dried stick of dung."

"THE GREATEST SKILL IS LIKE CLUMSINESS" is a Taoist idea that became essential
part of Buddhism. It delivers an important warning to slick artists who rely too much upon
their fluency: Important art must be truthful, not just talented. And that means
understanding the place of the knotty, awkward and simple. No artist of the postwar
period was a greater or more fluent draftsman than Willem de Kooning. In two beautiful
shows of drawing now on display in New York—one at the Drawing Center in SoHo, the
other at the Matthew Marks Gallery in Chelsea—you can see him struggling against the
easier forms of success. To find something fresher and more surprising, he would
sometimes draw with his eyes closed or with the paper turned at a cockeyed angle. The Zen
masters uptown would have understood.

Mark Stevens's reviews are available at newyorkmag.com

 
 "My play with brush and ink
is not calligraphy nor painting;
yet unknowing people mistakenly think:
this is calligraphy, this is painting."

Sengai Gibon (1750-1837)

THE
APPRECIATION
OF ZEN ART
John Stevens

THE EARLIEST reference to Zen brushwork occurs in the Platform Sutra of the Sixth
Patriarch, a text which relates the life and teaching of the illustrious Chinese master Hui-
neng (638-713). Buddhist scenes, composed in accordance to canonical dictates, were to be
painted on the walls of the monastery in which Huineng was laboring as a lay monk. At
midnight the chief priest sneaked into the hall and brushed a Buddhist verse on the white
wall. After viewing the calligraphy the next morning, the abbot dismissed the
commissioned artist with these words: "I've decided not to have the walls painted after all.
As the Diamond Sutra states 'All images everywhere are unreal and false."' Evidently
fearing that his disciples would adhere too closely to the realistic pictures, the abbot
thought a stark verse in black ink set against a white wall better suited to awaken the mind.

Thereafter, art was used by Chinese and Japanese Buddhists to reveal the essence, rather
than merely the form of things, through the use of bold lines, abbreviated brushwork, and
dynamic imagery—a unique genre now known as Zen art.

Although the seeds of Zen painting and calligraphy were sown in China, this art form
attained full flower in Japan. Masterpieces of Chinese Ch'an (Zen) art by such monks as
Ch'an-yueh, Liang K'ai, Yu Chien, Mu Ch'i, Chi-weng, Yin-t'o-lo and I-shan 1-ning were
enthusiastically imported to Japan during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and a
number of native artists, for example Kao Sonen and Mokuan Reiun, studied on the
mainland. Building on that base, Japanese monks such as Josetsu, Shubun, and somewhat
later Sesshu Toyo and Ikkyu Sojun produced splendid examples of classical Zen art;
eventually Zenga became one of the most important Japanese art forms, appreciated the
world over for its originality and distinctive flavor.

Early Zen in Japan was a religion for cultured aristocrats and powerful fords but by the
fifteenth century Zen priests and nuns became actively concerned with the welfare of
common folk. The democratization of Zen had a marked effect on painting and
calligraphy, and the scope of Zen art was dramatically expanded.

Hakuin and Sengai, the two greatest Zen artists, employed painting and calligraphy as
visual sermons (eseppo) to teach the hundreds of people, high and low, that gathered
around them. Both of the masters drew inspiration from other schools of Buddhism,
Confucianism, Shintoism, Taoism, folk religion, and scenes from everyday life; their
calligraphy too embraced much more than quotes from the Sutras and Patriarchs—
nursery rhymes, popular ballads, satirical verse, even bawdy songs from the red-light
districts could convey Buddhist truths. Zen art thus became all-inclusive: anything could
be the subject of a visual sermon.

Following the example of Hakuin and Sengai it became de rigueur for Zen masters to do
much of their teaching through the medium of brush and ink; a tradition that continues to
the present day. In many ways, Japanese Zen art parallels the Tibetan Buddhist concept
of termas (hidden treasures).

According to Tibetan legends, the guru Padmasambhava hid thousands of texts all over the
country to be discovered later when the time was ripe for their propagation. Whether or
not this is literally true, during the persecution of Buddhism in Tibet during the ninth
century, a large number of religious texts and articles were in fact hidden in caves, under
rocks, inside walls, and other secret places to prevent their destruction, and over the
centuries such treasures were gradually recovered. Similarly in Japan during this century,
devotees of Zen art have uncovered thousands of magnificent pieces locked away in temple
store-rooms, sitting forgotten on shelves in private homes, kept in drawers by indifferent
art dealers, or left uncatalogued in museums. The illustrations in this article are largely
comprised of such discoveries. Significantly, these pieces, some unseen for centuries but
still bearing a message as fresh and forceful as when first delivered, are reappearing just as
it is possible to display them throughout the world by means of modern print technology.

While the primary purpose of Zen painting and calligraphy is to instruct and inspire, it
does have a special set of aesthetic principles; indeed, the best Zen art is true, beneficial,
and beautiful a combination of deep insight and superior technique. The freshness,
directness, and liveliness of Zen painting and calligraphy imbue it with a charm that few
devotees of Japanese art can resist.

The aesthetics of Zen art are difficult to categorize. Zen artists follow the
method of no-method and, in that sense, Zen painting and calligraphy is
anti-art: not created for purely aesthetic effect and beyond the normal
categories of beautiful or ugly. As an unadorned "painting of the mind"
true Zen art is created in the here and now encounter of the brush, ink,
and paper and if it has drips or splashes on it so much the better! Zen
Figure 1 painting and calligraphy can also be thought of as folk art.

 One of the finest examples of Zen calligraphy ever brushed (Figure 1) is a set of scrolls
written by Ryokan (1758-1831) for an illiterate farmer: i-ro-ha, ichi-ni-san (a-b-c, one-two-
three).

Certain commentators have characterized Zen art as being asymmetrical, simple,

monochromatic, and austerely sublime; this, however, ignores the fact that there exist
perfectly round Zen circles, full-color painted "operas with huge casts", and delightful
cartoons with more than a touch of eroticism. Actually, the most important element of Zen
art is the degree of bokki present in the work. Bokki, "the ki projected into the ink",
activates the brushstrokes ("lines of the heart"). By contemplating the clarity, vigor,
intensity, extension, suppleness, scale, and sensitivity of the brushstrokes, the artist's
presence of mind and level of enlightenment is made palpable. By way of illustration,
consider the following examples.

Daruma, the legendary Grand Patriarch of Zen Buddhism, symbolizes penetrating insight,
self-reliance, and immediate awakening. The First Patriarch is the favorite subject of Zen
artists, a spiritual self-portrait as we can see in the five illustrations presented here (Figures
A, 2, 3, 4, 5); although the subject is the same, the respective treatments are completely
different, reflecting the unique Zen style of each individual artist. This particular style of
Daruma is known as hanshz'n-daruma (half-body Daruma); as an embodiment of the
universe Daruma's entire form is too big to capture on paper, and part of him remains
hidden from the view of unenlightened worldlings.

Temple life and religious ceremony was not for free-spirited Fugai Ekun
(1568-1655); he spent most of his days on the road or living in caves
where he obtained provisions in exchange for his paintings. Despite his
vagabond life, or perhaps because of it, Fugai was a remarkably
polished artist. Firmly constructed and finely textured, the brushstrokes
Figure A of Fugai's Daruma (Figure A) are extremely clear and luminous.

 There is a powerful undercurrent of stability, unostentatious refinement, and vitality. The

vibrant bokki brings this Daruma to life and one can sense the calm intensity of the
Patriarch as he gazes steadily past the viewer, taking in all the wonders that ordinary
people, preoccupied with their own affairs, overlook. An interesting feature of Fugai's
work is his frequent placement of his seal and signature behind his Darumas and Hoteis,
suggesting perhaps that the artist, too, is peering over the shoulder of his creation at the
viewer.

It is impossible to convey the overwhelming presence of this monster

Daruma (Figure 2) by Hakuin Ekaku (1685-1768). The painting itself is
over seven feet in height and nearly five feet in width; mounted on an
enormous scroll it covers an entire wall. The sixty-seven year old master
marshaled all of his resources to produce this tremendous display of
physical strength and spiritual power. The thick brushstrokes are bold,
substantial and charged with energy. Note that the Patriarch's eyes are
fixed on the viewer; as Hakuin wrote on some of his other Darumas, "I've
always got my eyes on you!" 
Figure 2
The viewer is literally forced to look within and "wake up". Such was Hakuin-style Zen-
demanding, forceful, expansive, and concrete. The inscription reads: "Son of an Indian
prince, Dharma-heir of Priest Hannyatara, he is a rough looking fellow, full of wild
determination."

At first glance, Sengai Gibon's (1750-1837) happy-go-lucky Daruma

(Figure 3) appears to be the exact opposite of Hakuin's intent Patriarch.
The kindly old fellow smiles to himself, content to let things come and go as
they please. Critics have complained of Sengai's lightheartedness and
cartoon-like brushwork, but on closer examination Sengai's Daruma is
found to be more mature, older and wiser than the versions of other
artists. The soft, lustrous brushstrokes are full of warmth, contentment,
and well-being. The accompanying inscription, "Entrust yourself to
Daruma. What is life? A drop of dew. When you meet this rascal, give it
back without regret", indicates that one must be unattached to all things,
even Buddhism. Like all of his best pieces, this painting originates in the
realm of pure and uninhibited joy.
Figure 3

Above all, the one factor that distinguishes Zenga from all other forms of
religious art is its burnout, indeed irreverence. This Daruma (Figure 4) by
Gako (Tengen Chiben 1737-1805), a student of the Hakuin school, resembles
that of the master but the inscription contains a risque pun: "He peers into
aeons with his clear eyed gaze. YES!! Dark willows, bright flowers... Dark
willows, bright flowers" was originally a Zen metaphor for Buddha-nature
but then it became a euphemism for pleasure quarters. The slang nickname
for courtesan was "daruma" because they were like the legless Daruma toy
dolls that always sprang up, ready for more, each time they were placed on
their backs. In short, Gako tells the viewer that Daruma may as well be
encountered in a brothel as in a monastery, and that one should not seek him
exclusively in religious edifices.
Figure 4

In keeping with that theme, Gako's Daruma appears rather cagey; wide-eyed and alert,
this Daruma is impossible to deceive. However, he seems more tolerant and understanding
of human frailties than Hakuin's fierce Patriarchs. Regarding the bokki, the large stroke
forming Daruma's robe is brushed decisively without a trace of stagnation and the eyes are
bright and fresh.
 Nanzan Koryo (1756-1839) was Sengai's "Dharmabrother", related to the
same master; similar to Sengai, Nanzan enjoyed mingling with common
folk, drinking sake, and brushing Zen art. His mighty Daruma (Figure 5),
glaring sharply to the side in order to repel any approaching challenges to
his serenity, is more artistically composed than that of Sengai and is much
larger in scale bigger than life-size. This masculine, muscular Daruma fills
the paper, assuming an assertive, no-nonsense stance and it is hard to
believe that such a vigorous Daruma sprang to life from the brush of an
eighty-three year old monk. As aficionados of' Zen art know well, this type
of lively brushwork is a bracing stimulant that refreshes and energizes the
viewer.  
Figure 5

Next to paintings of Daruma, Zen circles (enso) are the favorite subjects of Zen artists. In
addition to suggesting infinity, Zen circles also represent the moonmind of enlightment, the
wheel of life, emptiness, a mirror, ultra-abbreviated Darumas, and even rice cakes;
frequently the accompanying inscription on an enso asks, "What is this?", leaving the
answer up to the viewer.

In this enso (Figure 6) Torei Enji (1721-1792) has

drawn the universe. The brushstroke forming the circle
is perfectly controlled, firm, steady, and somewhat
reserved, much like Torei himself. The bokki is calm
and clear. Inside the circle, Torei calligraphed
Buddha's dramatic declaration at birth: "In heaven
and on earth I alone am the Honored One." Figure 6

The four characters "heaven-above-heaven-below" form a vertical axis to the side; "only-
I" is slightly off center and "honored-one" is placed a bit down to the left. The inscription
is thus a schematic representation of human life: set between the poles of heaven and earth,
unique but not solitary. (Notice also the skilful placement of the first "heaven" character
solidly above "above" and then the smooth shift to a cursive "heaven" character that flows
down to "down".) Other interpretations of this enso include "All of us share the same
nature as Buddha and can aspire to a similar enlightenment" and "The universe is not
outside oneself but within!"
 On occasion, Zen artists combine Daruma and enso into one
image as we see in this piece (Figure 7) by Seiin Onjiku (1767
-1830). Normally with such an inscription: "Who said, 'My
heart is like the autumn moon?"' The enso would be placed at
the top of the paper; here, however, Seiin has set the moon-mind
at the bottom to represent Daruma "wall-
gazing" (mempeki), illumined by the moonbeams of
enlightenment. Further, the inscription reminds us that, despite
vast differences in time and place, the minds of the Patriarch,
the Chinese poet Han-shan (to whom the verse refers), the
Japanese monk who created the painting, and that of the
modern viewer are essentially the same. Totally unaffected,
Seiin's brushwork is soft and warm and the bokki radiates
gentle light.  
Figure 7
Next we have a marvelous visual sermon by Hakuin (Figure 8).
The treasure boat of popular folklore is piloted by Fukuroruju,
the God of Longevity (whose face resembles that of the artist). The
boat itself is cleverly formed by the character kotobuki (long life)
and contains the four symbols of good fortune: (1) lucky raincoat;
(2) straw hat (representing the gift of invisibility from thieves and
tax collectors); (3) magic mallet (the Far East version of Aladdin's Figure 8
Lamp); and (4) treasure bag. 

The inscription, which dances above the boat, states, "Those who are loyal to their lord and
devoted to their elders will be represented with this raincoat, hat, mallet, and bag." The
best way to steer through the rapids of life is to board this ship as soon as it is launched one
who is sincere in his or her dealings with fellow human beings will naturally be blessed
with wealth and good fortune. The composition of the painting is light, bright, and buoyant
(notice how high the boat rides on the waves) while the message is deep and universal.

This Zen painting by Taikan Monju (1766-1842) of a puppet show

(Figure 9)—a theme first popularized by Hakuin—epitomises the
essence of e-seppo. A puppeteer is performing a morality play on
the filial piety of a poor Chinese peasant named Kakukyo.
Figure 9

The inscription relates the tale: "There was not enough food to feed both Kakukyo's aged
mother and infant son. Thinking to himself, 'I can always make more children, but I only
have one mother,' Kakukyo and his wife tearfully decided to bury their child. When
Kakukyo began digging a grave, he found a pot of gold hidden in that spot. They were now
rich and lived happily ever after." The story concludes with this moral: "All should be
thankful that Buddha taught us the great value of parents in this world of sorrow." Many
of the faces in the crowd of onlookers are not painted in, suggesting perhaps that the viewer
should substitute himself or herself for one of the figures.

A Zen artist is a master puppeteer too, out in the street using scenes from everyday life to
delight and edify the curious passer-by. Sometimes the moral is immediately clear,
understandable by all in both an amusing and instructive manner as in Hakuin's and
Taikan's paintings. Other times the Zen artist is more subtle, illuminating only one corner
and leaving the viewer to fill in the rest.

There is nothing subtle about this demon rod (Figure 10) by Shunso Shoju
(1751-1839). Demons wielded such dreadful weapons to beat evil doers as they
fell into hell and this painting is a forceful reminder of the truth: "As you sow,
so shall you reap." The accompanying inscription sums up Buddhist ethics:
"Avoid all evil, practice all good." Rather than depicting the horrors of hell in
gruesome detail, the Zen artist Shunso presents the case in the simplest
possible terms, employing thick brushstrokes to give the rod a three-
dimensional quality and extending the final character "practice" in the
inscription to emphasize the necessity of acting on one's good intentions.  

Figure 10
Buddha nature has a physical as well as a spiritual side to it and therefore
Zen artists depict people (and Buddhas) relieving themselves, passing gas,
and making love. In this delightful Zenga (Figure 11) by Ono no Yuren
(died 1775), the artist (portrayed as a pop-eyed frog) excitedly watches a
young lovely step into a bath; she evidently notices the intrusion of the
Figure 11 Peeping Tom and looks back with some disdain.

The frog reflects to himself, "Although I'm captivated now, eventually the emotion will
subside and my mind will return to its source." Passions can be dangerous but they also
add spice to life; properly controlled and transformed they can help one attain great
awakening. In keeping with the humorous yet profound theme of the painting, the
brushstrokes are light, bright, and ultimately revealing.
Now a drier subject (Figure 12) by Reigen Eto (1721-1785). The bleached
skulls of warriors and pilgrims who died on the road were a common sight in
old Japan, and Zen artists loved the subject. Reigen's skull painting is
a memento mori: "Turn to dust, ditto, ditto." In spite of the alarming
message, repeated three times to drive it home, the painting is not frightening.
The scene catches the rightness of change, and the foolishness of being
obsessed with the pursuit of fame and wealth; all individual forms naturally
dissolve some day and one should not be afraid of or attempt to avoid death.
Reigen's interesting brushwork is usually quite faint: suggestive rather than
assertive. It also hints at hidden mysteries. What is the strange shape in the
painting's foreground? Could it be a Tantric vajra, with the skull forming the
fourth orb?
Figure 12

Although more research is required prior to unequivocal attribution of

this landscape painting (Figure 13) to the renowned swordsman-samurai
artist Miyamoto Musashi (1584-1645), the scene, still on the surface,
Figure 13 bristles with an inner intensity associated with that master.

The cliff jutting out at the left and the tree on top extend up and out forcefully, unfolding
much like a perfectly controlled sword cut and the ma-ai (the combative distance) between
the cliff and the facing islands is perfectly balanced. Unlike a nanga landscape painting in
which a viewer is drawn into the work, Zen landscapes project out from the paper,
enveloping or even, as in Musashi's work, penetrating the viewer.

Contrast Musashi's intense, razor sharp brushwork with the soft lines of
Nanzan's charming little sketch (Figure 14). Almost child-like in its simplicity,
this is pure, unadulterated Zen art, created spontaneously without artifice or
strain. The inscription describes the joys of contemplating nature: "The
sound of a bubbling stream at night, the mountain colors at sunset."

Figure 14
Bamboo is the ultimate Zen plant: flexible yet strong and empty on the inside!
This painting (Figure 15) by Dokuan with an inscription by Daijun (both circa
1800) is typical of Daitokuji Zen art. With its long tradition of imperial
patronage and as head temple of the tea cult, cultured Daitokuji priests
turned out mostly classical Zen art as we see here. Dokuan was obviously a
professionally trained painter and Daijun, 407th abbot of Daitokuji, added a
verse in impeccable script: "Each leaf [rustles] creating fresh breezes."
Common sense indicates that the wind rustles the leaves but from the Zen
standpoint, it is the leaves that rustle the wind—one cannot occur without the
other. Bamboo remains cool in the hottest weather, "no-mindedly" accepting
the extremes of heat and cold, as it extends steadily upward.

Figure 15

Kogan Gengei (1748-1821) here portrays the favorite Zen animal (Figure 16).
A bull fears nothing, and when he sits, he really sits; when he moves, he really
moves—the ideal behavior of a Zen adept. A bull additionally stands for the
mind; uncontrollably wild at first but capable of being tamed, harnessed, and
eventually set free to roam contentedly wherever it pleases. Kogan's solidly
brushed bull-enso is set off against delicate willow branches, a harmonization
of brute force and gentle non-resistance.

Figure 16
When Mount Fuji is painted by professional artists, the peak is dressed in
gorgeous colors; a Zen Mount Fuji, on the other hand, is austere and created
with a few strokes. In this Zenga (Figure 17) by Yamaoka Tesshu (1836 1888),
the greatest Zen artist of the Meiji period (1868-1912), a handful of
brushstrokes create a lush landscape. The old couple gaze fondly on the lovely
scene as the grandfather says to his faithful wife, "You will live to be one
hundred and I'll live to ninety-nine; the peak of Mount Fuji and the pines of
Miho [are they not beautiful?]". The splendid lines and remarkable bokki
bring the scene to life; a viewer can actually sense the peace and love present
in the work.

Figure 17

As mentioned above, anything can be the subject of Zen art. Tesshu's modern
steamship (Figure 18) "Rides the great winds, shattering the waves of ten
thousand leagues." The clock cannot be turned back and one should not resist
change. Developments in technology, too, must be utilized to expand one's
horizons. The free spirited calligraphy flows up and down the paper; notice
the extraordinary bokki in the lines forming the waves and the ascending
smoke.

Figure 18

The trademark of Tesshu's colorful friend Nantembo (Toju Zenchu 1835-

1925), the last of the old-time Zen artists, was an uncompromising Zen staff
(Figure 19). "If you come forward speaking nonsense, you'll get a good taste
of my staff; if you try to fool me by remaining silent, you'll get a whack!" was
Nantembo's motto. This dynamic staff, painted in his fifties, explodes on the
paper, hanging over the heads of the indolent. The incredible single stroke of
the staff is, simultaneously, abstract and concrete, the key to the creation of
fine Zen art.  
Figure 19
 Turning now to the realm of Zen calligraphy—though actually
there is no clear distinction drawn between painting and
calligraphy—we have a lively ichi (Figure 20) brushed by Ungo
Kiyo (1582-1659). Does it represent the koan, "All things return to
the One. Where does the One return to?" Or to the "One Truth"?
Maybe it refers to the "One Vehicle" of Mahayana Buddhism. Or
Figure 20 perhaps the "Oneness" of human beings and Buddha.

This single brushstroke resembles a decisive cut of a sword; it begins with a burst of pure
spirit and then tails off into infinity. Even after the brush is lifted from the paper there
must remain a steady stream of concentration; in both the martial arts and calligraphy,
this state is called zanshin (lingering mind). The bokki is steady and direct, indeed
uncomplicated—Ungo always made his brushwork easy for anyone to read.

Condition is an important factor in collecting Zen art, but collectors should not limit their
selections to mint pieces which are, at any rate, difficult to find since so much Zen art was
given to children, peasants, and monks and nuns who could not afford to have them
properly mounted and stored.

This "flower" (Figure 21) brushed no doubt for some child by the
homeless monk Goryo Dojin (1768-1819) was written on the
cheapest paper with borrowed brush and ink but it is, to my mind,
infinitely superior to anything I have seen by contemporary
calligraphers who only work with the finest materials. 
Figure 21

Even though the paper is disintegrating and torn at the bottom, remounting would dull the
bokki and adversely affect the piece's unadorned charm. In certain, cases, Zen art should
be accepted "as is" without tampering or trying to restore it.

Here is a very rare piece (Figure 22) by a woman Zen master,

Ryonen (1646-1711). Ryonen was so lovely that no abbot would
accept her as a pupil lest she tempt the other monks; she therefore
disfigured her face with a red-hot iron. The brushwork exhibited
in this piece is confident and cool; Ryonen was obviously a
determined woman.  Figure 22

Technically superior, the spacing of both the lines and the characters is excellent; the
balance, too, is outstanding and the bokki vivid. The work reproduces a famous koan:
"'What is the meaning of the First Patriarch's coming to the West?' The master replied,
'The oak tree in the garden."' That is, enlightenment is not confined to the distant past; it is
right in front of your face, if you only look. Also, Daruma's "coming" was not an isolated
event hundreds of years ago; he is always "coming to the West" in the here and now of Zen
training.

"One-word Barriers" (ichijikan) are unique to Zen art. A large

character is brushed to catch the viewer's attention; typically an
accompanying inscription is added to reinforce the image. Obaku
Zen artists specialized in ichijikan, usually in a horizontal format
Figure 23 as we see in this piece (Figure 23) by Tetsugyu Doki (1628-1700).

It was composed for a certain Mr Mizumura so Tetsugyu set off the character mizu (water)
to the side and then in the inscription expresses delight at his host's generosity and the
man's efforts to be a good citizen and hard worker. Such lively, well-balanced brushwork is
typical of Obaku artists. (Incidentally, Zen artists often tried to include the character for
water in their pieces to serve farmers and merchants as a kind of good luck charm; to
bring rain to the crops and prevent fire in the household, for instance.)

This massive ichijikan (Figure 24) by Gan'o (died 1830) is literally

a "Barrier" with this inscription: "The pathless path." Leave off
the agitated ruminations of the mind, press yourself to the limit
(another meaning of kan), and attack the barrier head on. Since
Zen is a pathless path, it can be approached from any direction;
all that counts is effort. The artist's tiny signature suggests an
individual facing immense obstacles; nonetheless, the powerful
bokki inspires the viewer to take the challenge. An interesting
feature is the seal in the upper corner reading bhrum  in Siddham
script. Bhrum is the seed-syllable for all the esoteric Buddhist Figure 24
deities and Gan'o's placement of that mystic sign on his ichijikan
indicates the unity of Zen and Tantric approaches.

Closely related to ichijikan are ichigyo-mono (one-line Zen phrases). Jiun

Sonja's (1718-1804) ichigyo-mono (Figure 25) is direct and to the point: "One
who is content is always wealthy". Jiun replaced animal hair brushes with
ones made of bamboo or reed and his calligraphy appears at first to be rough
and undistinguished. Upon further examination, however, the bokki is found
to reflect the high-minded purity of the artist and the distinctive artlessness of
perfectly natural brushstrokes. The calligraphy still appears as fresh as the
day it was put on paper, seemingly self-formed by some elemental force. The
first and last characters extend out positively, creating a subtle tension that
links the middle characters.  

Figure 25
The calligraphy in Nantembo's one-liner (Figure 26) is a bit gruff, similar to
the old fellow himself; even the elongated signature seems to form a staff ever
ready to strike! This ichigyo-mono is more puzzling than that of Jiun: "A
fierce tiger roars, the moon rises above the mountains." The animal cry of the
tiger arises from the raging world of the senses while the inanimate moon
silently shines high above us the key is to settle oneself between the extremes
of matter and spirit, lust and apathy, light and dark, positive and negative.

Figure 26

It is a common misconception that Zen calligraphy is wildly illegible; in fact,

as noted above with Ungo, many Zen calligraphers deliberately make their
work easy to read. This one-liner (Figure 27) by Banryu (1848-1935) clearly
states a well-known Confucian maxim: "A peach tree does not speak yet a
path appears beneath it" (that is, a virtuous person never boasts about
himself but nonetheless attracts admirers). Banryu succeeded Nantembo as
the abbot of Zuiganji in Matsushima. When he arrived at the temple to
assume his new position, he was so shabbily dressed that the gatekeeper
mistook him for a beggar and sent him to the kitchen for food. He was a late
bloomer and did not start painting until his eighties. This piece, brushed in
the last year of Banryu's life, is amazingly sure and steady for an eighty-eight
year old man. Warm and bright, the artist's contentment and peace of mind
shines through the work.  
Figure 27

It is well understood in the Orient that contemplation of art fosters awakening no less than
sitting in meditation, studying a sacred text, or listening to a sermon. Zen masters applied
their insight to painting and calligraphy to inspire, instruct, and delight all those who
choose to look.

 
 

ontrol the breathing.  Remove the rococo gold-framed

family photo, and feel the great emptiness of Zen, a
word that is attached these days to almost anything
incorporating small gray stones or naked branches in
vases.  It’s a handy concept for interior designers, 
furniture manufacturers and pebble merchants.  The reality of Zen
would have house-proud Little Dragons and Tigers reeling in
horror.  Zen means more than neat-looking chopstick rests.  It’s
about austere monastic ways and stern abbots, big sticks and
physical privation.  Most of all it’s about the denial of
materialism, which hardly makes it the official ideology of our
readership.

Out of this seemingly hopeless interior design situation arises something of genuinely universal
appeal—Zen paintings.  Although conceived as objects of spiritual instruction, Zen paintings
(Zenga) are more owner friendly than that.  Just as Frasier Crane can accumulate African tribal
sculptures without involving himself in occult initiation rites, Zenga can be admired without
gazing at a wall for several years.  Wall contemplation was always more important for the artist
than the collector.  In centuries past, Zenga owners were doubtless more spiritually attuned than
they are now, but there has always been an aesthetic dimension as well.  In this respect, the
Japanese are so far ahead of the Asian game, it’s easy to see why they haven’t always got on with
their neighbours.  Peasants in Japan sought out Zen and other art works; peasants in China were
more concerned about finding their next meal.

Much of the inspiration for Zen art came from China originally.  The closely associated tea
ceremony was also a Chinese innovation that flowered far longer in Japan than in its
homeland.  Japanese Zen missionary expansion continued in the early 20th century, bringing
Southeast Asia into the picture; a situation which is scarcely credible nowadays.  Paintings of Zen
inspiration were first brushed in Chinese monasteries approximately 1,300 years
ago.  Characterized from the start by starkness, the approach has changed little over the
centuries.  Certain themes are constantly repeated:  iron rods, skulls, images of the great patriarch
Daruma and, above all, circles.
To some extent, it is the subject matter that
defines Zen art.  Occasionally there may be an
original concept, or perhaps a touch of
eroticism.  Usually it’s the tried-and-trusted
formulae that work for a painting’s true purpose
—as an object of contemplation and overall
improvement.  Calligraphy features prominently,
often in the form of enigmatic sayings or one-
word exhortations.  Sometimes these are basic
enough to be understood by those who cannot
read Japanese or Chinese.  A single horizontal
slash of black ink spells out “ichi” (one) and just
about anyone can admire the boldness of the
statement.  The meaning might be anything from
“unity” to “the one vehicle of Mahayana
Buddhism,” but the viewer is bound to feel
something connected with oneness.

In addition to subject matter, the other Zen factor

is the artist.  If Jackson Pollock were to dribble
an “ichi” or if Yves Klein dragged a naked
woman across his canvas, that wouldn’t make it a
Zen painting.  The real thing is done by those
with spiritual training.  The best are those
executed in the twilight years of senior monastic
figures, including women.  Leading dealer in the
field, Belinda Sweet, believes there is no grey
area in determining the “Zen-ness” of a Daruma, the great patriarch of Zen Buddhism,
painting.  “There is an entirely different as seen by Fugai (1568-1654),
feeling.  These works have the strength and focus the greatest Zen artist of his day.
that they do because of the intense Zen practice
of the Zen masters.  That takes years and years of
meditation to develop.”
 
The message was clearly understood by Japanese adherents of all classes.  While Zen was initially
an aristocratic pursuit, by the time of the great Zenga artists of the 17th century onwards, it had a
much wider audience. There was none of the mistrust of semi-abstract art that prevails in most of
the world today. It is easy to see why even illiterate Japanese were so ready to accept these
works.  Their power is immediate, and as the artists were often happy to produce a painting in
exchange for a bowl of rice, they were also very affordable.  Simplicity has become the
sophistication of the 21st century, but for a 19th century Japanese peasant it had other
attractions.  There is also an earthiness that would go down well with anyone who has seen life at
paddy-field level.  
With much of the world trying to Give Peace a Chance, some of that old 60s spirit is manifesting
itself again.  The upsurge of interest in Zen art that has taken place over the past decade, especially
among American buyers, is bound to escalate.  Sweet reports some activity from Hong Kong and
Singapore.  The White House has yet to take up the challenge. There would be a great deal more
interest from Asia if regional art lovers realized that minimalist art can come with minimalist
prices.  For as little as a few hundred dollars it is possible to buy impressive works by known
names, albeit not always in superb condition.  For US$250,000 you can take your pick from the
Picassos and Matisses of the Zen art pantheon.

These top rankers include Hakuin, whose life straddled the 17th and 18th centuries, and Sengai, who
worked through the 18th and 19th centuries.  There are legions of others whose names generate huge
respect and who had quite a following in their lifetime.  Extremely popular now is Nantembo, who
died in 1925.  As almost all of these artists lived unusually long lives, their output is often massive
—Nantembo claimed to have produced 100,000 works.  Authenticating their work is an equally
big job.  Sweet, who has put great effort into this area, relies on brushstroke and seals.  Japanese
artists also used red ink seals of Chinese inspiration.  However, as one artist might have used
dozens of different seals, analyzing them is a lifetime’s work.  At the same time, their brushwork
could change with their mood and age.  As few Zen works come with sparkling provenances, the
role of the expert dealer is vital.

For collectors seeking less problematic, more contemporary masters, there is a new generation of
Zen artists from which to choose.  In the case of John Daido Loori, these take such familiar forms
as “ichi” and Daruma facing a wall.  The plastic-hippie radar might start pinging when it comes to
his photographic works, available in a collection called Making Love With Light.  The radar will be
out of control by the time one reaches another venture, called Zen Exposure.  With a section
dedicated to “Clearance Items,” there is little left of the emphasis of those not always golden, but
at least the commercial element was not apparent with Zen masters from the past:  Nantembo
supposedly charged only one yen for his paintings.

Photos courtesy of:  Belinda Sweet, The Morse Collection, The Genshin Collection and The Crovello Collection

If I hold a sake cup

my friend is there
I think of Deiryu.
(By Isamu Yoshii. in Deiryu Iho p. 130)  

‘Deiryu...Deiryu...Deiryu...', the thunderous voice of the Zen Buddhist master Yamamoto

Gempo (1866-1961) called out as tears flowed down his face.  Gempo was conducting the
funeral service for Kanshu Sojun, better known as Deiryu, on the morning of 7 March 1954
at the temple Empukuji, just outside Kyoto. Deiryu had been only sixty when he died, and
the deep sorrow and affection expressed by Gempo, himself 89 years old, was indicative of
the love felt for Deiryu by monks and lay people alike.

Deiryu was born in 1895 to the lzawa family.  Although the Izawas were residents of Kobe,
he was actually born in Tomogashima in Wakayama prefecture, where Deiryu's father was
working as an engineer on the construction of a fort. The elder Izawa was a noted naval
engineer, and Deiryu received the strict upbringing and education typically given a son in a
military family.  One of his brothers, in fact, joined the navy, eventually becoming a Rear
Admiral, and following further in his father’s footsteps, acted as it consultant on the
construction of a lighthouse.  Deiryu held military men in great respect throughout his life,
but his father's expectations were overwhelming, and school in particular made Deiryu
agitated and nervous.  He found a remedy for his academic troubles in physical education,
an area in which he was said to have excelled.  He had a particular affinity for the sea, and
since he outclassed the other students in swimming, he often represented his school in
competitions.

Despite his athletic abilities, Deiryu was diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis, and his
doctors predicted he would not live past the age of 25. Faced with an uncertain future, he
decided to begin serving as an acolyte in a Zen temple.  However, times were difficult, and
many temples were experiencing severe financial hardship.  The local temple, Zensho-ji,
already had five acolytes, and due to its destitute state could not afford another. Hearing of
Deiryu's predicament, the Zen master Nantenbo (Toju Zenchu: 1839-1925) from Kaisei-ji
(in Nishinomiya, between Osaka and Kobe) stepped in, saying: ‘Kaisei-ji right now also has
many troubles, but by all means I will allow this child to become an acolyte'.  Thus, Deiryu
began serving as an attendant to Nantenbo, one of the most noted and highly respected Zen
masters of the twentieth century.  Despite occasionally running into trouble for his
independent spirit.,  Nantenbo, more than any other Zen master, helped usher Zen safely
into the twentieth century by emphasizing strict, traditional training, and practice in the
face of modernization.  He was also a noted painter-calligrapher.

In the spring of 1912, Deiryu's father and mother passed away within a month of each
other—a great shock that sent Deiryu into a period of deep mourning.  Attempting to
escape his sorrow through physical activity, he turned to kendo (fencing with bamboo
swords), an art in which he was already very accomplished.  The kendo master at the gym
in Kobe at the time was a friend of Deiryu's older brother Toru, a man named Takeji
Teramoto.  Teramoto was acquainted with Nantenbo and often asked the master to talk
about Zen to his kendo group.  Largely through Teramoto's influence, in 1913 Deiryu
entered Kaisei-ji to train formally as a monk, rather than to be merely an acolyte, under
Nantenbo.
With Nantenbo, Deiryu traveled through the countryside on lecture tours for the general
public, trips that could include as many as thirty stops. The two usually traveled at night,
often sitting up in a third-class train carriage, in order to arrive at the next location in the
morning. On these journeys, Nantenbo sat in zazen meditation, and Deiryu diligently
memorized Zen texts and practiced calligraphy by tracing the shapes of characters with his
finger in the palm of his hand.

Kasumi Bunsho, a pupil of Nantenbo and later of Deiryu, recalled:

When Deiryu was young, and still called 'Jun-san' [the name he had as a novice], he used to
practice calligraphy all day when his Master, Nantenbo, was away.  He also practiced
calligraphy whenever he was on a train or ship with Nantenbo. With an example by Wang
Hsi-chih [Wang Xizhi: 309-65] on his lap, he licked the index finger of his right hand and
practiced copying the characters on his left palm with it. Once he started, nothing
distracted him.

Bunsho also described copies of Nantenbo's lecture books, which Deiryu had made at the
age of thirty and which were kept at Kaisei-ji. Deiryu's copies of the Rinzairoku,
Mumonkan and Hekiganroku are written in kaisho (square, printed style), and reveal no
mistakes or corrections as well as displaying an assuredness 'as if written by a computer: as
if [the artist] himself' was the brush...’

Deiryu's style in calligraphy and painting seems to have been strongly

influenced by Nantenbo.  This can be seen in the two-line calligraphy in
Figure 1, which reads:

With plum blossoms

the moon colors intensify:
Without bamboo
the autumn voice is stilled.  

Figure 1

The poem reveals how both joy and sorrow can be magnified by the changing aspects of
nature and the seasons. Just as the presence of plum blossoms can enhance an evening of
moon viewing, the absence of bamboo makes autumn a little more austere and lonely.  The
rhythm and breadth of the characters as they sweep down the scroll, punctuated by
streams of 'flying white' (where the brush has split, allowing the paper to show through)
are reminiscent of Nantenbo's style of brushwork.
Using his painting skill to pay homage to his master, Deiryu created a
portrait of Nantenbo at the age of eighty (Figure 2).  Nantenbo himself
wrote the inscription:  

Striking and pounding with the Nantenbo*

I annihilate all false Zen:
This ugly old shave-pate arouses hate for a thousand ages,
Extinguishing the transmission like a blind donkey.
(Steven Addiss, The Art of Zen [paperback edition] New York, 1998, p. 202)

[*Here, 'Nantenbo' also refers to the staff of a Zen monk.]  

Figure 2

Nantenbo is depicted in stem concentration, with fiercely knit brows and scowling
mouth.  Both the physical and the textual descriptions reveal a Zen master of strong
conviction, determined to protect and preserve the true nature of Zen.  Deiryu has
portrayed his master with awe and slight apprehension; the thick eyebrows and powerful
frown enhance the fierceness of a Zen master as seen by his disciple.

Despite the rigorous and harsh nature of Zen training, with its long hours of
sitting meditation, the implements associated with this training are
occasionally transformed into works of art.  In one instance, Deiryu inscribed
a wooden keisaku, a long stick used by a presiding monk (jiki jutsu) who
walks silently around the meditation hall striking dozing monks (often at their
own invitation) during meditation sessions (Figure 3).  The words are
appropriate: ‘When you train hard, your satori  [enlightenment] will be much
greater.’

The inclusion of calligraphic inscriptions on functional objects such as

the keisaku  reinforces the continuity of art, teaching, training and life in Zen
Buddhism. The inscribed objects reveal not only the Zen master's enlightened
experience, but also the tools with which his experience will be
transmitted.  Personal experience and spiritual tradition merge.  

Figure 3

Deiryu left Kaisei-ji probably in 1924 and went to Empuku-ji, a major training center for
Rinzai Zen, to continue his study under Kozuki Tesso (1883-1941), the master from whom
he would receive inka (certification of enlightenment). Unfortunately, the year after Deiryu
arrived, Nantenbo became ill, and Deiryu returned to Kaisei-ji to be with him during his
last days.  In 1927, Deiryu was sent to Taiwan to become head of Rinzai-ji, a branch temple
of the Kyoto temple Myoshin-ji. There he promoted the spread of Zen throughout
Southeast Asia.

Two years later, he became head of Kensho-ji in Kumamoto prefecture, Kyushu, and then
in 1932, at the age of 37, he returned to his first temple, Kaisei-ji, as kancho ('abbot').
During his tenure at Kaisei-ji, he established a private school for students from Southeast
Asia at the temple.  The establishment of this school required great effort on Deiryu's part:
he received help and support from many friends and acquaintances whom he had met in
Taiwan, as well as from his elder brother, who was by that time a naval officer.

In 1937, while on a lecture tour, Kozuki Roshi, Zen master at Empuku-ji, was killed in a
car accident, and Deiryu was asked to take over his position.  Before beginning his duties at
the sodo (training hall) at Empuku-ji, Deiryu decided to visit 25 sodo around the country,
meeting the Zen masters at each. Having completed this task, he then began what would be
a seventeen-year, tenure at Empuku-ji.

While overseeing the training program at the temple, Deiryu showed great appreciation for
the trials and tribulations of the monks he taught, and he could often be seen on begging
rounds with his pupils. Isamu Yoshii, his close friend and a noted poet, described the
practice: 'My house faced the road which led from Empuku-ji to town.  Over the hedge, I
used to see a group of monks on begging rounds walking down the road chanting "oh, oh"
in the morning mist.  At the head of the group was Deiryu himself wearing a brown robe,
which distinguished him from the other monks in black robes'. For the Zen master of such
a large Zen monastery to participate in begging rounds with his student monks was highly
unusual.
The sight of black-robed monks on their morning begging rounds, their
chanting resounding down narrow neighborhood streets, can still be witnessed
today in Japan. The visual as well as the aural impression created is striking
and has lent itself to one of the most charming and beloved subjects in Zen
painting. Although the theme is known to have been painted by Zen monk-
artists of the Edo period (1615-1867), such as Kogan Gengei (1747-1821), it
was Nantenbo who simplified the compositions into two gentle swaying groups
of monks clad in black robes and sedge hats.

Influenced by his teacher, Deiryu continued the tradition and painted his own
diptychs of monks going out and returning from their rounds, or sometimes,
single images showing one line of monks (Figure 4). The visual effect of the
simplified ink figures is quite stunning; the black streaks comprising their
robes fading into a gentle gray wash as the monks recede. The charmingly
simplified feet and the faces that peer out one after another, mouths open to
show the monks chanting, also reveal the delightfully uninhibited nature of
Zen. Particularly appealing is the final figure in the procession, whose eyes
peer demurely over the other monks. The inscription on the scroll reads:
'Walking, walking this Buddhist path'.  

Figure 4

Deiryu had a life-long affinity for sakè, and despite the fact that it was customary for
monks to politely refuse, he indulged freely, often landing in unusual predicaments as a
result. Masahiro Yoshida, a kendo master who taught this martial art for the police
department, recalled an evening when Deiryu came to his house in Osaka for a visit. The
two friends drank sake until they became drunk. When Deiryu left the house for the
evening, the last tram of the night was pulling away. Deiryu shouted, ‘Wait!’ but the tram
had already gone. He was arrested for obstructing traffic, and taken to the Yoshihara
police station, where he was detained overnight. The next morning, a police officer inquired
where he had been drinking the previous night. Deiryu replied that he had been at the
house of Yoshida, the police station’s kendo teacher. ‘Last night when you were asked, you
said you didn’t know where you had been drinking. Why didn’t you say you had been at
Yoshida’s house?’ Deiryu answered that he could not use a friend’s name to help him
resolve his own misconduct, since that would be a dishonorable act. He then left the police
station. When Yoshida arrived at work later that morning, the story of a drunken monk at
the teacher’s house was circulating. When he inquired more fully he was told the whole
story, and thus came to understand Deiryu’s personality. (Deiryu Iho, pp. 169-170)

Zen Buddhism has a long and deep connection with tea, and Deiryu himself often wrote
calligraphy on tea bowls and cups. His thoughts on the relationship between Zen and tea
are reflected in his answer to a question by a lay follower of Nantenbo, Soshin Omori,
whose father was the seventh-generation head of the Tamagawa Enshu-ryu (related to the
Enshu Tea School). As Soshin later recalled:

I had not understood clearly the difference between Lao-tzu and Zen, so I asked Deiryu
about it. He said simply: ‘Lao-tzu has no ho (inner law or structure)’. He meant that there
is inner law in Zen but not in Taoism. After that, I began to pay attention to the inner
law… Lao-tzu conveys a teaching which people can read and think about. On the other
hand, Zen is a realization, an experience… In this sense, there is also ho in tea. Tea is not a
thought. It places the utmost importance on experience and practice. I came to understand
that this is why tea and Zen are considered to be one thing. (ibid. pp. 152-55)

For a set of five tea cups dated spring, 1944, Deiryu not only
brushed characters on the cups in blue glaze, but also inscribed in
bold calligraphy the wooden box in which the cups are kept
(Figure 5). The inscriptions on the cups read: 'Snow, moon,
flowers'; 'Old pine, cloud leisure'; 'Southern mountain longevity';
'Pine waves' and 'Eight-faceted crystal'.  On the sides of the box,
Deiryu wrote: 'Green mountains do not move, white clouds go and
Figure 5 come.'  

The four characters on one of the cups can also be seen inscribed
within the enso ('Zen circle') in Figure 6. Here Deiryu has written
the words, 'Old pine, cloud leisure', in bold calligraphy within a
circle of gray ink punctuated by a few patches of 'flying
white'.  The wash of gray ink gives the enso a sense of radiance,
which is enhanced by the sliver of darker ink along the left outer
edge of the single brushstroke describing the circle.  
Figure 6
In the small calligraphy scroll shown in Figure 7, Deiryu has written a single
line of characters followed by the simple image of a horse viewed from the
rear. The calligraphy says:

The myriad concerns of man

Are like old man Saio’s [horse].

This is a reference to an ancient Chinese tale that Nantenbo had often

utilized in his own paintings, suggesting that worldly gains and losses are
meaningless. According to the story, old man Saio’s horse runs away, but the
old man is untroubled, suggesting that eventually something good might
come of it. A few months later, the horse returns, bringing with it a beautiful
stallion, but Saio does not rejoice. Soon afterwards, the old man’s son falls
from the horse and breaks his leg. Again Saio simply accepts what has
happened. Because of his lame leg, the son cannot be conscripted into the
army. Saio’s wisdom is revealed as the sons of his neighbors fail to return
Figure 7 from the war.  
Deiryu is not merely enhancing or illustrating the inscription by adding the image of the
horse; rather, the image had been used as a substitute for the word ‘horse’, establishing a
unique relationship between text and image. In East Asian art this is particularly
appropriate, since many Japanese and Chinese characters were originally derived from
pictographs. Deiryu has cleverly placed the horse at the end of the line of calligraphy, thus
creating a continuous flow and making no distinction between word and image.

Like many Zen masters at the end of World War II, Deiryu worked tirelessly to help
rebuild the country. At the same time, however, his health began to decline, exacerbated by
work, his drinking and his already frail condition. His brothers had lost everything during
the war, and Deiryu attempted to assist them as well. He became unable to travel, but
Isamu Yoshii recalled that despite his illness, ‘he would walk up thirty stone steps to sit in a
cottage with a southern exposure. With the shoji [paper screens], it was always warm on an
autumn day. He would keep the hibachi [charcoal brazier] burning so steam could rise.
Even when he was resting, his face revealed the power to both scold and laugh’. On 24
April 1949, Deiryu himself wrote a poem in which he described the joys of this hermitage,
the Suigetsu-an, and included mention of the stone steps:

‘On the Anniversary of Repairing the Stone Wall at Suigetsu-an’

Blue pines and green bamboo shade my window,
Flowers smile; warblers sing by my hermitage.
As I climb the stone steps, I see the strength of cedars;
At the pure cool mountaintop, Buddha is bright and vivid.
(Deiryukutsu Goroku, p.96)

In 1953, Deiryu began planning a meeting to commemorate the anniversary of Kozuki

death, but his plans had to be abandoned as his health declined.  He wrote a final poem:

'Foolish Man's Dream'

To explain the dream within a dream is a fool's dream.
My experiences have come and gone for 59 years.
While poisoned blood flows and flows
like a rain of ripe plum juice,
Trees return to vivid blues and greens.
(ibid., p. 97)
 Ironically, at some point in his life, Deiryu created a work in which he boldly
wrote the character for ‘dream’, allowing it to fill the composition, and
adding nothing else except his signature and seals (Figure 8). The manner in
which the brushstrokes dance dramatically over the paper reveals the
strength and spontaneity for which Zen calligraphy is noted. However,
within the powerful directness of the calligraphic gesture there remains a
certain mystery.

 As his health worsened, Deiryu was moved to a hospital in Toneyama. One
of the last monks to enter Empuku-ji under Deiryu described his visit to his
teacher: ‘When I learned from the head monk that [Deiryu] had entered the
Toneyama hospital, I inquired and visited him. He smiled a big smile and
said: “Come often. It is unfortunate that I cannot give you tonsure; if you
and I had only met a year earlier.” To me this is extremely regrettable’. Figure 8
(Deiryu Iho, pp. 120-21)  

The master died on 2 February 1954. One of Deiryu’s attending doctors, Kazue Yamanaka,
recalled: ‘After the Roshi had died, Dr. Watanabe [Deiryu’s friend] wanted to have his
body autopsied, but was not sure if this would be prevented on religious grounds. However,
we found that Roshi had left a short note that said: “Submit my body to an autopsy and
cremate it.” It moved us, and we were very grateful to him.’ (ibid., p 168)

Despite his seventeen-year tenure at Empuku-ji, Deiryu probably never reached his
ultimate potential as a Zen master. Aware of Deiryu’s frail health, Nantenbo had once told
him: ‘You should live to fifty, or sixty, but seventy or eighty is full of bloom’. (ibid., p.63)
Nonetheless, Deiryu protected and fostered the tradition of monastic Zen training and
practice in Japan, making sure that the efforts, which had been made by Nantenbo at the
turn of the century, were not in vain. In his painting and calligraphy, Deiryu displayed the
humor, strength an inner vision that made him one of the outstanding monk-artists of the
twentieth century.

Audrey Yoshiko Seo, PhD, teaches Japanese art and culture at the College of William and
Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. She is the author of The Art of Twentieth Century Zen:
Paintings and Calligraphy by Japanese Masters (Boston, 1998). The book also serves as the
catalogue to the exhibition of the same name, which will travel to five museums in the
United States from 1998 to 2000, and which includes eleven works by Deiryu.

Selected Bibliography:
Stephen Adiss, The Art of Zen, New York, 1989
Deiryu Iho, Kyoto, 1980
Deiryukutsu Goroku, Kyoto, 1980
Fukushima Shun’o and Shoshun Kato, Zenga no Sekai, Kyoto and Tokyo, 1978
Kishida Kembu, Homyaku Gendai Zen Sho Retsudan, Kyoto, 1973
Audrey Yoshiko Seo, The Art of Twentieth-Century Zen, Boston, 1998
John Stevens, Zenga: Brushstrokes of Enlightenment, New Orleans, 1990

 Bibliography

Exhibition Catalogs:

Addiss, Stephen. Obaku: Zen Paintings and Calligraphy. Lawrence, Kansas: The
Helen Foresman Spencer Museum of Art, 1978.Till, Barry. Less Is More: Japanese
Zen Paintings from the Seventeenth to Twentieth Century. Victoria, B.C.: Art Gallery
of Greater Victoria, 2006.

Eastburn, Melanie, Lucie Folan and Robyn Maxwell. Black Robe, White Mist: Art of
the Japanese Buddhist Nun Rengetsu. Canberra: National Gallery of Australia, 2007.

The Embassy of the United States of America in Japan (with support from Japan
Airlines). Zenga: The Return from America, Zenga from the Gitter-Yelen Collection.
Tokyo: Asano Laboratories, INC., 2000.

The Heinz Götze Collection, Heidelberg. Chinese and Japanese Calligraphy, Spanning
Two Thousand Years. Munich: Prestel-Verlag, 1989.

Levine, Gregory, and Yukio Lippit. Awakenings: Zen Figure Painting in Medieval
Japan. New York: Japan Society, Inc., 2007.
Seattle Art Museum. Song of the Brush: Japanese Paintings from the Sansō
Collection. Seattle: Seattle Art Museum, 1979.

Stevens, John, and Alice Rae Yelen. Zenga: Brushstrokes of Enlightenment. New
Orleans: New Orleans Museum of Art, 1990.

Woodson, Yoko. Zen Painting and Calligraphy: 17th – 20th Centuries. San Francisco:
Asian Art Museum of San Francisco, 2001.

Zen Brush, Zen Mind: Japanese Ink Paintings from the Gitter-Yelen Collection. Art
Gallery of New South Wales, 2006.

Zenga and Nanga: Paintings by Japanese Monks and Scholars, from the Collection of
Kurt and Millie Gitter. New Orleans: New Orleans Museum of Art, 1976.

Books:

Addiss, Stephen. The Art of Zen. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1989.

Awakawa, Yasuichi. Zen Painting. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1970.

Nishimura, Eshin. Unsui: A Diary of Zen Monastic Life. Giei Satō, illust., and
Bardwell L. Smith, ed. Honolulu: The University Press of Hawaii, 1973.
Reps, Paul and Nyogen Sanzaki. Zen Flesh, Zen Bones. Boston: Charles E. Tuttle Co.
Inc., 1957.

Seo, Audrey Yoshiko. Enso: Zen Circles of Enlightenment. Boston and London:
Weatherhill, 2007.

Seo, Audrey, and Stephen Addiss. The Art of 20th Century Zen. Boston and London:
Shambhala Publications, 1998.

Stevens, John. Sacred Calligraphy of the East, 3rd ed. Boston and London: Shambhala
Publications, 1995.

__________. The Sword of No-Sword: Life of the Master Warrior Tesshu. Boulder
and London: Shambhala Publications, 1984.

__________. Three Zen Masters: Ikkyū, Hakuin, Ryōkan. New York and Tokyo:
Kodansha International, 1993.

__________. Zenga: Brushstrokes of Enlightenment. New Orleans: New Orleans

Museum of Art, 1990.

Suzuki, Daisetz T. Sengai: The Zen Master. Eva van Hoboken, ed. London: Faber and
Faber, Ltd., 1971.
Taishimano, Eidō, and Kōgetsu Tani. Zen Word, Zen Calligraphy. Boston and
London: Shambhala Publications, 1995.

Tanahashi, Kazuaki. Penetrating Laughter: Hakuin’s Zen and Art. Woodstock, New
York: Overlook Press, 1982.

Wild Ivy: The Spiritual Autobiography of Zen Master Hakuin. Norman Waddell,
trans. Boston and London: Shambhala Publications, 1999.

About Zen Art

Japanese Zen paintings are a wholly unique art form. Often used as teaching tools and intended as
spiritual inspiration, they are a pure expression of the artist’s spiritual awareness.

At a time rife with concern over the ethics of removing an artwork from its country of origin, it is
heartening to realize that Japanese Zen art has always been meant to travel and to touch people far
and wide.

Zen paintings are made by monks and nuns following the path of Zen Buddhism in Japan. An
important component of Zen art is that the character and spiritual force of the devotee is transmitted
into the painting by the concentration of the artist at the time the work was brushed. Many of the
most compelling works have been painted by persons of advanced age who have spent a lifetime in
disciplined Buddhist practice. Their paintings resonate with the strength of their understanding and
experience, offering generations of viewers works with insightful immediacy.

On the surface, Japanese Zen paintings appear simple, direct and sometimes amusing, but in looking
deeper one realizes that these are also paintings of great power. Like the Zen philosophy they arise
from, these paintings embrace paradox on many levels. They are a very focused, pure and intense
form of religious art.
http://www.zenpaintings.com/