Have you considered handmade paper as art itself? What is it about the paper that makes it so artful?
Do you create with it? Do you create your own paper?
What paper artists do you especially feel drawn to?
|
When you think of paper, what immediately comes to mind? Something you make notes on? A thin sheet for your printer to print on? A thick sheet to paint or draw on? A decorative sheet for wrapping a gift? You wouldn't be wrong, of course, but there's so much more to paper. Handmade paper is often art itself. Seven years ago, while traveling in Bhutan, I visited Jungshi Handmade Paper Factory in Thimphu to write an article. [For videos of the process: click here.] I was surprised to learn that the Japanese government had provided training for the owner, Norbu Tenzin, for Bhutan has its own long history of traditional paper making. At the same time, I wasn't surprised because Japanese paper makers are renowned for their high quality and design. I was already familiar with the gorgeous washi that they've been creating for so many centuries. Even simple letter paper, not the kind that you pull out of a ream from an office supply store, is beautiful in its texture and subtle neutrals. Other papers are colorful and used for origami. The different papers are made from a variety of fibers, depending on what's available: for example, mulberry bark, mitsumata bush, hemp, and more. When I go to foreign countries, I generally pick up textiles to work with and also buy items made from them to give as presents. Textiles are easy to fold and carry. However, during my recent travels in Korea and Japan, I fell in love with the handmade paper that I came across and decided to bring a few sheets home. The first two are from the Pungsan Hanji Factory in the Andong area of Korea, with close-ups below them. And farther down are details of paper made with hemp that I chanced upon at Kamiji Kakimoto, a famous paper store in Kyoto. When held up to light, these ecru-colored sheets look like gossamer. But now I face a dilemma: I can't bring myself to cut through the paper, which has as much texture as many textiles. Maybe if I gaze at them long enough, appreciating their beauty, I'll eventually be seized with an idea and have the courage to wield a pair of scissors or rotary cutter or to tear by hand. While in Seoul, I saw the many things that can be created with paper. I visited the Jong Ie Nara Paper Art Museum. When I first stepped into the building, I was disappointed, for the first-floor gallery had an exhibit of colorful flower arrangements and cut-out designs. It was skillful handiwork, but not what I had hoped to see. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed on the wall how paper was folded into different creatures and plants. Koreans, who have been making paper since the 4th century C.E., believe that folding paper makes children clever--"wisdom paper." Finally, on the second floor, I found exhibits of both traditional functional items and contemporary artwork. I was amazed to see umbrellas, shoes, hats, clothing, jars, baskets, bowls, boxes, a powder keg, a lantern, a quiver and arrows, window blinds, cases for pencils or needles and thread, a pagoda, and more. As I peered into the vitrines, I struggled to believe these objects were made of paper, for they looked as though they'd been created with the same kind of plant materials used for baskets. Also, somehow, the paper was resistant to water. Then I was rewarded and impressed by a gallery of innovative work from Korean artists. Unfortunately, not all the title cards included their names in English, and I've not yet learned how to read Korean, so attribution here is sketchy. My apologies to the artists. And my apologies to readers for not being able to provide information about the kinds of paper and techniques used. Here are a few of the works I saw, which my photos don't do justice to because seeing them in person reveals so many textural details. If you've ever doubted the idea of paper as art, I hope these images will persuade you to think otherwise. Questions and Comments:
Have you considered handmade paper as art itself? What is it about the paper that makes it so artful? Do you create with it? Do you create your own paper? What paper artists do you especially feel drawn to?
9 Comments
For some people, the word "museum" might conjure up stuffy old buildings where ancient artifacts are enclosed in dimly-lit vitrines. They can't wait to get back outside. In such cases, a museum does not live up to its Greek origin, Mouseios, of the Muses, the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology that presided over song, poetry, the arts, and the sciences. Not all museums inspire, astonish, or enchant. In the last few decades, however, there's been a huge transformation in how museum buildings are designed or remodeled as well as in how much the programs and exhibitions are participatory. During my recent experiences of museums showcasing artwork and functional items created with textiles, clay, metal, paper, paint, ink, and more in Korea and Japan, I found the displays mostly fascinating. Some museums are highly sophisticated and even induce awe because they are far more than a building housing objects to view. One of them is Miho Museum, conceived by renowned Chinese American architect I.M. Pei and opened in 1997. When I was in Japan in 2012, I was encouraged to visit the Miho, located more than an hour from Kyoto, but I got so involved in going to other places that it fell off my list. This time, determined not to miss it, I went off with a friend one day. From the minute the bus started winding its way up a narrow road through the mountains, I sensed something unusual awaited me. I wasn't wrong. Also, after a long warm spell, I finally got to witness the colorful leaves of autumn. With most museums, you simply go up some stairs to the entrance, but to reach the Miho, you have to take a journey of sorts. From the reception building, which includes a natural foods restaurant along with a gift shop, we walked to a "silver" tunnel. As we traversed it, I was surprised not to hear any echoing of our footsteps. We later learned that the curved walls are perforated to absorb sound. Sitting along the walls are lights to guide the way. They made me think I was moving through a passageway illuminated by candles. While in the tunnel, you can't see where you're headed; you don't know what will be on the other side. Then, as you begin to near the end, you catch a glimpse of where you're going. Once out of the tunnel, you cross a bridge toward the museum building and the spectacular setting. It's like emerging into another world. In every direction are the forested mountains of a vast nature reserve. When I look back, I can see where I have just come from. I can't help but think of magical passages--from the womb, through the birth canal, and into the light of day, or from the back of the dark closet into the realm of Narnia in C.S. Lewis' fantasy novels. In fact, I.M. Pei based his concept on a Chinese fable, "The Peach Blossom Spring," in which a fisherman chances upon a utopian community where people live in harmony with nature. For Pei, Miho became a kind of Shangri-la. Once we cross the bridge, there we are, in the plaza of a museum that looks, at first glance, like a traditional Japanese house. As we ascend the steps to the entrance, we soon discover it is far from being typical. I.M. Pei used traditional Japanese architecture to honor the culture and environment in which the museum is embedded, but then technology allowed him to create a light-filled building in which one doesn't feel separate from nature. Achieving this effect, even placing the museum where it is, was a long and arduous effort with complex engineering making it possible. A media room inside the museum offers videos of how the project evolved. Pei's design also incorporates the triangles he favors, in the roof/ceiling, wall lights, and floor tiles. Think of the Pyramid he created for the Louvre in Paris. Because no photographs are permitted in the galleries, I can't include images of the kind of artwork that is exhibited at the Miho. But one aspect struck me: Instead of finding a lot of objects crowded together, there was a feeling of spaciousness. Each antique, representing diverse eras and regions of the world, is a treasure that Mihoko Koyama personally collected as she traveled (even at the age of 80 in a wheelchair) to other countries. She founded the Miho because of her sense that contact with beautiful things not only enlivens the human spirit but also enriches the quality of our lives. She believed that our capacity to see beauty is not something we learn through logic or reason but from the accumulated experiences in which we cultivate our sensitivities. The intention of the museum is to evoke a moment of happiness through an encounter with beauty (human-made objects and nature) . My experience of visiting the Miho did engender feelings of happiness. They didn't necessarily arise because of the precious ancient objects Koyama amassed, though many were indeed lovely to behold. Rather, it was the whole experience of getting there and being there. I loved heading up the mountain, witnessing the fall colors, passing through the tunnel, breathing the clear, fresh air, reveling in the panoramic views and peacefulness. I did feel as though I had been transported from one world into another. It was one that I readily embraced and wanted to hold onto. I turned to my friend and said, "I wish I could get on a plane from here, carrying this feeling home with me." As heiress to the Toyobo textile business, Mihoko Koyama was considered one of the wealthiest women in Japan. Thus, unlike almost everyone else in the world, she could fulfill her dream to create a place of extraordinary beauty. She had the means to purchase the land, collect the Eastern and Western treasures, and commission Pei as the architect--reputedly to the tune of three-quarters of a billion dollars. Still, can't her philosophy be applied widely, not just to rare and expensive masterpieces?: Through art, make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place. Questions and Comments:
Do you believe that the intention of art is to make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place? If so, how? If not, why? How do you make the world a beautiful, peaceful, and enjoyable place as an artist? When you view "beautiful" (who decides what's beautiful?) art, does it bring about a moment of happiness for you? |
Mirka KnasterI am a fiber/mixed-media artist with a decades-long career as a writer. Working with textiles and handmade paper from around the world and exploring the heart of art evoke my joy daily. *Blog continues on my website. Click link below for my recent posts.
Archives
March 2017
Categories
|