You don’t really know something until you try it. But the experience of understanding an artwork by redoing it or experimenting with the same subject is something else. The process of woodblock printmaking is a multi-stage work, mainly composed of:
- Sketching and designing the drawing.
- Mapping or separating the drawing into colours, if any, for later transfer onto the carved plates.
- Transferring and carving the main woodblock outline, or additionally proceeding with other cherry woodblocks, each carved for a specific colour separated by the colour map.
- Printing the woodblocks onto paper, following the colour map and rendering the final composition layer by layer, as a complete ensemble of colours and depths.
If the final woodblock print is just black and white, you could also imagine dividing the image into individual shades of grey—a gradient of black—or outlines of varying thickness, from thinner to thicker. Nevertheless, for simplicity, let us consider for now the single process of carving one panel containing the main black outlines.
The difficulty, and the beauty, lies in the fact that the initial drawing, even if it provides a detailed map for the carver, must still be interpreted. Each stroke, thin or thick line, shade, or texture made with ink will somehow be translated into a mark made by the cutter, at different levels or depths within the material you are working on. There are multiple cutters, and countless ways to use each one of them.
Therefore, we must assume that a woodblock printing artwork is not literally the translation of a single person's idea, with the main artist carrying his or her name on the final panel, but rather the joint effort of at least two people, specialised in different disciplines. Well, there are artists, particularly modern ones such as Tokuriki, who do everything themselves: drawing, carving, and printing (or colouring). But they are modern exceptions, at least as far as I know.
A work of Tokuriki Tomikichiro (1902 - 1999). Traditional Houses in Kurashiki
The main point of the discussion is that even if, as carvers, we have a perfectly drawn map of the artist's original idea, the carver's interpretation will differ considerably from the initial rendering. As a craftsman, he or she has the choice of using one cutter or another to render the same line: deeper or shallower, vertical or tilted. No two works can be identical, even when produced by the same carver and starting from the same mapped idea. Therefore, carving itself adds to or reinterprets the original idea, translating it into a vastly different reality.
As a carver, you should not feel constrained by the original artist's plan. Instead, you could, and perhaps should, actively choose to render the same subject in your own way. This simple fact is the reason why the same woodblock might have been used for 200 or 250 prints before being discarded as worn out and recarved, giving a different impression, or even a different economic value, to the same artist's image, over time.
The original impressions are more valuable, since they were likely produced under the direct supervision of the artist himself. Others, perhaps the second or third editions, might have been recarved by a different publisher company and could therefore be less notable and less valuable. This may be because the carver was less skilled or talented, or less able to fulfil the initial idea of the principal artist, the creator of the original artwork in the form of a drawing.
Two woodblock prints by the same artist (Hokusai), depicting the same subject and based on the same idea, yet published by different publishers and likely carved by different carvers, with different final colour schemes. Notice how one publisher opted for a green tone, while the other chose a more Prussian blue tone. The second version, which is more valuable, is closer to the original colour scheme adopted by the artist himself. Yet this version is likely already a second reprint edition, rather than the “true” original first edition. The use of Prussian blue came later, historically, as this pigment only became available in Japan some time after the first prints were produced. It is possible that the first edition was originally conceived with an intense blue, but that, due to the nature of the colours—made from natural pigments and materials subject to oxidation—the original blue gradually shifted towards a greener, more stable tone. By the time the third edition was produced, the publisher may have had access to an original print whose blue had already faded or shifted towards green. No longer seeing the intense blue, the publisher reproduced the image in green. A funny story!
Another important task for the carver, when translating the idea of a drawing into a printable woodblock, is the choice of layering. The way in which depth is created in the drawing, the spatial rendering achieved through texture or planes that are slightly more recessed or raised, can give the final image a completely different perception of space. Such a task is by no means trivial. This applies not only to woodblock artistry but also to the carving of an image into metal, such as the present case.
Sometimes I find myself lost in the drawing I am facing. When looking at the two-dimensional image that I have to transfer onto the metal, I do not immediately notice the complexity of the scene. Only when I start carving the metal do I begin to understand that complexity: the overlapping of the spatial composition, the depth of certain details, and the intricacy of the overall arrangement.
A simple drawing of hanging clothes conceals a real challenge in modulating the depth of its layers. And that makes me look at an apparently very simple artwork differently. It makes me admire not only the initial idea of the principal artist but also the skill and mastery of the carver, who is able to achieve such simplicity, such a composition, through the use of just a few precise and clean strokes.
A single stroke can render a hand, the shadow of a hat, or the texture of a person's clothing. Afterwards, I look at the drawing with completely different eyes. I admire not only the skill but also the experience required to achieve such an unexpected level of detail with so little.
Let's take an example to understand where the practical challenges lie. At first glance, this example looks like a trivial carving job. Not many lines, just a few overlaps, and that's it. Or so I thought. But my first mistake was to consider its composition simple, because it looked clean and constructed with very few details at first glance. The reality was quite different, much more complex.
First of all, there is the tracing of the original subject. In this case, it is a famous woodblock print by Hokusai depicting clothes hanging on bamboo poles, with Mount Fuji in the background. It belongs to the series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji.
The tracing was created by doubling the size of the original woodblock print. This particular view was indeed first published as part of a booklet containing the Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji, printed in black and white.
