When I reflect on the life of Kano Eitoku, I am seized by an inescapable, burning, yet strangely cold sense of loneliness. This is because, in stark contrast to the enormous, sky-piercing branches of the giant trees he depicted, I sense the delicate, almost fragile “tremor” of a single man, as if he could break at any moment.
Nagatoku, Genshiro. He was, so to speak, a child destined to be born with a paintbrush. His grandfather was none other than Motonobu. In that turbulent era, when the Muromachi period crumbled with a roar and everyone stepped onto a path of carnage where they didn’t even know if they would survive tomorrow, I can only imagine the immense pressure that weighed on the shoulders of the young man burdened with the name of the Kano family. I understand that all too well. To dismiss him as simply being good at getting by in the world would be a disservice to him. Wasn’t that a desperate, life-or-death “service” to survive?
Oda Nobunaga. Just uttering that name must have sent shivers down the spines of people at the time. This fierce, destructive god who burned away all common sense commissioned Eitoku to paint the murals for Azuchi Castle. He wanted him to depict paradise on earth, or rather, the castle of a god who had appeared on earth. Eitoku must have trembled. But he transformed that trembling into the strength of his brushstrokes. That is the true meaning of the word “bold and unrestrained.” A coward shouts to hide his own fear. I can’t help but feel that the surging dragons and pine roots grasping the earth that Eitoku painted were the flip side of his inner cry, or perhaps even a scream.
History is the record of the victors. But in the shadows, there are souls that tried to tame the monster called beauty, only to be devoured instead. Eitoku was exactly one of them. Nobunaga perished at Honnoji Temple, and next came Hashiba Hideyoshi, that shabby man, yet more loyal to his desires than anyone else. Eitoku had to serve this man once again. Osaka Castle, and then Jurakudai. In spaces covered with gold, blatantly displaying wealth, he chipped away at his own soul, leaving his mark.
I sometimes imagine Eitoku standing in the dead of night in a silent, empty hall, confronting the gigantic lion he himself painted. There, I doubt, was a trace of pride in being a painter for the rulers of the land. There was only the deep sigh of a man who had stepped into the hell of art, a man who could never be satisfied no matter how much he painted, a man who could only prove himself by continuing to paint. He passed away at the tragically young age of 48. Death from overwork. Yes, he was literally killed by his paintbrush.
Behind the scenes of the turbulent Sengoku period, when he produced the epitome of dazzling, golden, and lustrous beauty, how many quiet tears must he have shed? Tossed about by the whims of those in power, chased by deadlines, and in order to protect the prosperity of his family, he abandoned all luxury, such as his personal likes and dislikes. He is both like a saint and, at the same time, like an irredeemable clown. I cannot help but feel an indescribable kinship with Eitoku’s all-too-human, mud-stained, yet noble way of life.
Beauty can be cruel. Eitoku’s painting of Azuchi Castle, which he poured his life into, vanished in the flames of war. Many of his masterpieces were swallowed up by the turbulent currents of history and became mere illusions. But what about the overwhelming energy that emanates from the few remaining works? It is not merely a collection of technical skill. What resides there is the remnants of a life that a man desperately clung to, either prepared to die or trying to escape death.
Was Eitoku happy? Or was he unhappy? Such questions must have been meaningless to him. He was simply born as Kano Eitoku and fulfilled his destiny. That is all there is to it. I imagine the scenery he must have seen just before his death. It wasn’t a cloud shining with golden light, but surely something like a still stream of water, colorless and crystal clear as far as the eye can see. With that thought in mind, I sigh deeply alone in the darkness of the night.
Perhaps what the painter Eitoku poured into his brushstrokes wasn’t power, but rather “prayer.” A heartfelt prayer to soothe, even for a moment, the weary hearts of warlords, or perhaps to hold together his own trembling spirit. When viewed in this light, even his fierce brushstrokes take on a certain sadness and tenderness. He was a slave to beauty, yet at the same time, he used beauty as a weapon to fight against the harsh reality. The traces of that battle are none other than the true nature of the powerful paintings we now witness.
Ah, Eitoku. You, too, like me, were a cowardly self-conscious individual who tried to cover up the difficulties of living in this world with the falsehood of art. In the sharp gaze of the lion you painted, I see your own frightened, yet proud eyes. And as I am pierced by those eyes, I feel compelled to affirm my own pathetic, yet lovable life once again. I want to believe that this is the true voice of Kano Eitoku, speaking to us across time.