JEAN FRÉMONness that reign between trees and the comings and goings of the fisherman on the
lake, with particular attention to the relative order of beings and things.
Another exercised for several hours a day in order to keep his wrist supple
enough to hold the brush without a trace of sti√ness or weakness, thus ensur-
ing that the blacks would not go flat and the colors would ring with all their
brilliancy.
A third borrowed a book of models from the Palace library, made some
tracing paper by painting rice paper with oil, and diligently copied the works of
the ancient masters, following their sweeping contours as faithfully as he could.
For his preparation, Hokusai fed his chickens and sat in the shade of a large
tree on the banks of the Tatsuta River, daydreaming.
On the stated day, everyone gathered—the women of the court dressed in
their finest, the dignitaries adopting the important air they adopt so well, the
judges making sure that none of their natural sense of humor showed. Preceded
by drums and cythars, the sovereign crossed the nine thresholds and took his
place, surrounded by his highest ministers. Only then did the Director of Rites
reveal the competition’s theme: Autumn.
The one who’d prepared himself by closely observing reality thought, ‘‘Ah,
autumn, now that’s something I know well because I’ve seen it—the springs surge
up, the mountain is coi√ed in white clouds, and crevices and grottoes appear in
the rocks because there are fewer leaves on the trees and the undergrowth is
sparser.’’
He who had exercised his wrist thought, ‘‘The colors must be kept transparent
to keep them alive; even if autumn has the fragile splendor of decline, the ink
must sink deep down into the paper like the life force does in the slightest blade
of grass. The apparent gaps in the composition will echo the leaves missing from
the trees and the openings between the banks of clouds. In order to capture that
properly, the brush must just graze lightly across the surface, never retracing its
path.’’
And the one who had given himself up to copying the ancients tried to
remember exactly how various earlier painters had evoked the calm melancholy
of the season, what precise color the moon should be, and whether it should be
populated with sparrows or cranes. Certainly, there would be no crickets or
dragonflies still hanging around the pond.