Choi Kyu-il: Seal Engraver

"Don't you think you should know where all that wabi-sabi came from?" asked Kang Joon-Hyuk, Korea's most creative and enthusiastic promoter and producer of contemporary ddfcultural arts, when we were working together on the 1990 Los Angeles Festival in Los Angeles.

Back then, I was completely captivated by my new (since 1985) study of  Chanoyu, Japanese tea ceremony with a master teacher/practitioner in Los Angeles Sosei Matsumoto. I could talk of little else to friends or any who was within 2 feet of me.

I must have been insufferable in sharing my then three (of a total of 8 to date) Japan  exploits with Mr. Kang. In 1989, a fabulous week of classes at the Midorikai program for foreign students in Kyoto's Urasenke school and visiting temples as part of the entourage of the grand tea master Hounsai, Sen Soshitsu XV, I took a trip northward to Kanazawa where I happened to be introduced to Nanen, a contemporary Japanese artist who carves stone seals utilizing kyujitai, the traditional pictographic shapes of Chinese characters. She was printing them in a variety of colors and gold leaf on various types of hand made washi, some of which were being converted into fans and lanterns. 

Here, however, was someone who knew how to capture my obsessive compulsive attention,   to get me to channel my enthusiasm toward a heritage that was and is in its own right superb without equal. He decided to introduce me to his friend Choi Kyu-il, an artist who is a stone seal carver, so we got in his car and drove to a nondescript neighborhood somewhere in Seoul.

Stone seals, used throughout Asia for their imprinting utility, figure into the full length and breadth of Korea's history, beginning with the mythic founder Tangun who is said to have descended from heaven to rule the people carry three stone seals. For centuries their creators have taken a backseat in the cultural hierarchy in deference to calligraphers. Choi prefers to be called an artisan rather than an artist.

Choi Kyu-il's brush paintings and seal carving.

The son of an itinerant pushcart worker father (and the usually under reported mother) Mr. Choi, then 67 years of age, had lackluster success at a number of small businesses following his college education. Most importantly, the family man of four children and an enterprising wife, was completely uninspired. At the age of 32 he tried his hand at seal carving, a solo venture informed by renowned books of Chinese calligraphy undertaken without "benefit" of teacher.

We entered the building from the sidewalk but immediately stepped down through a narrow corridor. Sunlight didn't seem to be a priority for this somewhat bent over man with a long white beard and hair. Stones in various sizes from palm-sized to those more like parking lot barriers, were scattered on the floor, leaning up against the walls and his work table. Also, there were lots of large sketches on white paper made with brush and ink.

Mr. Choi's "studio" was more like a quarry but in the basement of yet another 1950s concrete building that survived Korea's tumultuous 20th century of occupation and war, New and Old Village movements and general corruption. With the kind translation of Mr. Kang, I learned that Mr. Choi had a unique artistic practice. He carved but rarely printed his works on paper.

In my native enthusiasm, I recited the itinerary of my recent exploits in Japan, shared some photos of Nanen's work. It was pretty innocent, but in hindsight a bit rude to my hosts. 

Nonetheless, as one artist interested in another, Mr. Choi asked, "How fast does she carve?"

Speed is one of his well-honed faculties, and he exercises himself in other media, such as croquis, the rapid Western-style drawing technique. Only Choi uses brush and ink rather than the usual pencil or charcoal, and works on the floor. After "performing" a few female nudes, he handed me a brush and invited me to try. While I have seen more women's bodies in my life than he has, nonetheless, I was unsure where to place the first line and breathless when I called it quits ending, rather than completing the form. He beamed at the "finish line". Another "Ta-da!" He gave me his as a gift, along with a few others of lobsters and horses.

His fame spread slowly due to the fact that he is never sells his work, the stones themselves, and is reluctant at best to have them printed. His first exhibition was in 1985. His workplace, extremely cramped with stacks upon boxes upon crates of the soft "soapstone" used by seal carvers, resembled more likely his former construction supply store.

When one looks at a carving, whether it's the statue of "David" by Michaelangelo or anything before it or after, speed is not the first thing that comes to mind. Even Michaelangelo's fabled comment about just cutting away everything that wasn't David, doesn't seem to be relevant to Choi's process. 

Next, Mr. Choi took it upon himself to create his first Romanized image in stone by carving my first name into the narrow edge of a stone blank about 3" x 1" x 2", tiny by comparison to the seemingly baby boulders stacked everywhere in his workspace. Getting slowly up from his bench, due to a chronic physical disability, he took a thinner  tool and began to dig into what seemed to be his clenched palm. A cloud of white stone dust grew and spread over his hand. At once, he blew it away opened his palm fully to reveal a multi-lined poem scratched carefully on its wide surface. I almost wanted to shout, "Ta-da!"

  

Choi is said to profess never to repeat a knife stroke, believing that each movement has a life of its own. Thus it is easy to see this otherwise reclusive artist feeling content as a social being. It took him 12 years to develop his technique of il do il wek, or "one touch, one stroke" through which he calls into being Chinese characters in no less that 36 different styles, including those reflecting ancient Chinese oracle-engraved bones. He has worked with hieroglyphic forms as well as narrative images of nudes, Korean farmer dancers, and whatever else pleases him. 

He proudly showed me a low table top upon which as assembled 27 stones, the face of each were over 6 inches square, of the character for "travel" carved in myriad layouts. Each was a stunning, animated image;
together
they promoted great
movement despite
their
 collective weight.

I found his work hanging in one of Insadong's tiny tea rooms, a bartered exchange, I was assured by my friends. One of his works, the entirety of the Kumgang Sutra, (Vajrasamadhi Sutra) encompass 1,111 stones, 6 cm X 6 cm, when rubbed required 11 large, uncut sheets of paper. He has also done other sutras and many poems of his favorite Korean and Chinese poets, but few have been seen by the public.

Kyoto Journal #60 (2005)

SEASONAL SWEETS IN KYOTO

Halloween, Easter, Valentine's Day and Christmas holidays are special times in America's candyland not just for the volume of candy sold, but also because the design of the confections aligns with the seasons. I have always loved candy corn and once found it at a shop during the spring season. I don't know why I asked the proprietor if it was fresh (they are like stone pebbles otherwise), especially since I was going to buy them anyway (and they were not).

But in Japan, one cannot eat out of season.

Question: Which of these does not belong? 

            (a) Earth (b) Metal (c) Wood

            (d) Water  (e) Air  (f) Fire

            (g) Beans (h) Rice

Answer:  They're all basic materials required in the alchemy of chanoyu, the Japanese tea ritual.  The first three are the components of the utensils; the next three are essential to transform a simple bush leaf into the fabled elixir which has been the centerpiece in an over four centuries old Japanese social, medicinal and artistic convention.

So far, so good for kettles, tea bowls, scrolls, flower arrangements and the like; what of (g) and (h)?  Combined, they create a complete protein which is the life support system of much of the world's population.  But in the hands of Japanese confectioners and chajin (tea practitioners) these simple foodstuffs become exquisite elements in the great poetry which is a chaji (tea gathering.)

Unlike the Western custom of sweetening a beverage, a guest is served wagashi, (traditional Japanese sweet) in advance of the somewhat bitter tasting green matcha, (powdered green tea leaf).  As nothing incorporated in a chaji should escape the host's meticulous consideration of theme, mood and guest's enjoyment, the form and function of those otherwise mundane adzuki beans and rice are heavily invested with meaning. 

Kyoto, chado central, is also a major center for tea sweet makers.  Just as the main tea families have their formal court of utensil makers (Raku and Sotetsu, by appointment to the Urasenke oiemoto (grand tea master) ceramists and laquerware makers, respectfully), there are sweet makers whose confections have been served at Sen family, school and organization chaji  for generations.  Tomiko Sen, wife of the current (15th generation) grand master of Urasenke recently compiled her essays (translated into English) about her husband's family's favorite sweets in a beautifully illustrated book, An Almanac of Urasenke Seasonal Tea Sweets (Kyoto, Tankosha. 1994).  True to its name, the book takes the reader on a year's odyssey of omogashi (moist)  and higashi (dry) sweets which are served following the kaiseki meal and preceding koicha (thick tea) and usucha (thin) tea presentations, respectively.  Here we have insight into the subtle sensuality and symbolism of sweetness. 

It is said that a chaji stimulates all senses ... matsukaze (sound of wind in the pines) of a boiling tea kettle; the aroma of incense; as well as touch of the ceramic tea bowl and  refreshing visual harmonies of flowers and scroll.  As for the sense of taste, tea sweets are   not sickly sweet as to overpower the palate.   In addition to beans and rice, other basic "structural" ingredients can include kudzu (a starch), agar gelatin and miso.  While the predominant source of sweetness is sugar, the taste can vary with the addition of such traditional elements as chestnuts, ginko nuts and yuzu (a citron), even a cherry leaf. 

While higashi are typically created in meticulously carved wood molds, the omogashi shapes are limited by the ingredients to being cut from a "slab" (like the supermarket available yokan jelly), rolled or pressed by hand.  Some are made to be eaten with the fingers, others with a kuromoji (pick).  Sweets can be contained in fresh green bamboo shoots or wrapped in edible and non edible leaves.   Depending upon the circumstances, traditionally omogashi are served in a 5-tiered stack of black lacquered boxes or bowls (glass, ceramic, lacquer, etc.) ; the higashi are served on trays in one of several formal configurations of laying food items on a tray. 

The handmade sweets are often prepared to order, reflecting historic as well as innovative imagery, taste and shape favored by the host to fit the occasion.  Many of the designs are Japanese classics ... whirlpools to suggest water, rabbits for New Year, various seasonal flowers, red-yellow-orange maple leaves, ears of rice, mushrooms, pine needles and cones.  Standard chaji banter between host and main guest includes inquiring as to the source and poetic name of the sweets.  Names included in this book include:

January	Chiyomusubi	Eternity
February	Tsumuyuki	Snow Drift
March	Hanagoromo	Flowery Robe
April	Hanaikada	Raft with Cherry Blossoms
May	Kashiwa mochi	Oak Leaf Mochi
June	Minazuki	Rainless Month
July	Himuro	Icehouse
August	Hagi no Tsuyu	Bush Clover Dew
September	Hatsukari	First Geese
October	Yamaji no Kiku	Chrysanthemum by the Mountain Path
November	Fukiyose	Blown Together
December	Hashimori	Bridge Keeper

True to the spirit of the Japanese sense of color mixing, the sweets palette range from the terribly subtle to the awfully day-glo.  I remember an event I attended at Tenryuji temple in Kyoto's Arashiyama many Octobers ago.  Following a kencha (offertory tea) presentation by the Urasenke Iemoto, we onlookers were served tea in the magnificent old, dimly lighted tea rooms by the senior teachers using some meibutsu (old, important, registered) utensils.  It was wabi-sabi heaven ... until the sweets came out: Yamamichi (Mountain Path), from the Tachibanaya confectionary, a bean/rice configuration of an, (bean paste of single consistency like smooth, soft fudge.)   The dark red-brown an center is surrounded by a thin screaming hot-pink, green and yellow rice flour skin with impressions representing mountain peaks and valleys.  (The piece was a cross-section cut from what must have looked when first made like a fluted column with a flat side.)   Ms. Sen observes, "One somehow cannot imagine tramping through such beautiful woods.  When November approaches, the amount of chestnuts in this sweet is decreased, and the colors representing the maple covered peaks, are made brighter, contrasting with the cold air all around us."

Wandering around the narrow old streets of Kyoto, it's difficult to immediately spot a tea sweet proprietor, so beyond the tried and true yet awkward method of peeking in windows, I took advantage of Diane Durston's Old Kyoto (first edition) which listed several, including century-old Shioyoshi-ken (Nakadachiuri-agaru, Kuromon-dori, Kamigyo-ku).    The Taisho-period machiya-styled wood latticed windows revealed nothing of the activities inside; the doorway was hidden by a weathered kamban and a quietly breeze-fluttered calligraphed noren concealed the doorway.  Like most traditional confectioners, the shop was more artist's studios and gallery than retail store.  No English was spoken, so I resorted to an explanation in bumpy nihongo about my chanoyu  studies at Urasenke in Kyoto and the USA, and then after being presented a bowl of matcha.  (Seems I sounded like a serious customer!)  I looked around at the old wood-appointed sales room with its wall of closed wooden drawers and to see a few displays of what looked like a tiny basket of raked autumn leaves from a temple garden ... 3000 yen for about 25 pieces of candy no larger than a thumbnail!  But they were beautiful. 

Unfortunately, Tomiko Sen's book does not have addresses of the confectioners mentioned (some may not be open to the public); however, two of Urasenke's mainstays are easy to find: Yoshinobu (with an expensive tea utensil store on the second floor and a cafe on the first), located on the same side of the street and south of the Chado Research Center (Horikawa at Teranouchi) and Miso Matsukazeya on Kitaoji on the same side and just east of Daitokuji (a fabulous roof tile and stepping stone facade!)   One need not speak perfect Japanese to be received graciously.  Going prices in Kyoto for moist sweets at the high end averaged 500 yen each in the fall of 1994. 

In many cases, the only place you can buy a particular sweet is directly from the confectioner and of course, they are only available in season.  (Some shops have outlets in department stores.)  Sweets must be fresh to be truly enjoyed, as the ingredients can also be re configured into paste and building materials. Resist the temptation to eat one on the run (a Japan faux-pas anyhow) and seek out a place to enjoy the sweet with a bowl of tea in a refined atmosphere of a temple or neighborhood tea room.  Otherwise, it's just beans and rice.

I am working on an okashiya map of Kyoto. Comments, additions are welcome.

LOCAL SIDEBAR: Los Angeles' Little Tokyo has two local omogashi makers, Mikawaya and Fugetsu-do.  At the former I once purchased a stiff gelatin-type sweet which mimicked a bright orange koi swimming in a temple pond.  My favorite proprietor is Chikaramochi in Gardena. The consistency of their mochi is so smooth, the colors are subtly wild and the taste is always fresh. In San Francisco there once was the masterful Yamada-Seika in Japan Town which in season dips strawberry in mochi.