Aim higher, reach farther.

What's in a Name? Sometimes, a Lot

New York

At the heart of the Japan Society's "Silver Wind: The Arts of Sakai Hōitsu (1761-1828)" and the Metropolitan Museum of Art's "Designing Nature: The Rinpa Aesthetic in Japanese Art" are paintings striking for their rich use of color and stark compositions—cranes silhouetted against gold, flat planes of color forming trees and fruit, a naturalistic moth hovering over a cluster of irises. But there are also group scenes of poets in animated conversation as well as hyperrealistic depictions of, say, tree trunks with lichen or poppies in bloom floating in abstracted settings. Dated from the 16th century onward, all are presented as belonging to the Rinpa (or Rimpa) school.

Just as there is disagreement on transliteration, so is there equivocation on exactly what the word denotes. Indeed, it's never a good sign when a definition begins with a negative, and writings about Rinpa/Rimpa uniformly start off by stating that it is "not a school" with a traditional master-student lineage. Rather, it is an affiliation of artists across time and space, artists who "tend to" depict nature and draw on classic Japanese tales and poetry, "often" simplify compositions and deploy a wet-on-wet brush technique known as tarashikomi.

As the Japan Society demonstrates, the best way to grasp the big picture is by diving first into the particular. Curated by Matthew P. McKelway of Columbia University, its show focuses primarily on Sakai Hōitsu, the scion of a high-ranking family in the capital, Edo, who began painting courtesans in the manner of prominent ukiyo-e—floating world—artists.

When drastic reforms aimed in part at separating the classes took effect, Hōitsu wisely turned his attention to safe themes drawn from courtly Japanese painting and became enamored of earlier works, particularly by Ogata Kōrin (1658-1716) and Tawaraya Sōtatsu (for whom the only known date is his death in 1640). Rinpa, a term coined in the Meiji period (1868-1912), combines the second syllable of Kōrin and pa, meaning school.

Most revealing is the juxtaposition of Hōitsu's "Waves" (c. 1815) and Kōrin's "Rough Waves" (c. 1705). (Note that these two works are on view only until Nov. 4, when the former returns to Tokyo's Seikadō Bunko Art Museum and the latter to the Met.) In both, a large wave rushes in from the upper right while another ripples up from the lower left. Kōrin's composition, however, fills a two-panel folding screen, while Hōitsu's spills across two six-panel screens. Kōrin's waves rise from a blue ocean to crest against a gold background; Hōitsu's are in black ink on a silver ground, and the artist echoes the general shape of Kōrin's top wave in his own lower one.

The treatment of the metallic background also differs. In Kōrin's screen, the squares of gold leaf are applied unevenly, creating a fluid backdrop, while Hōitsu had his squares of silver leaf applied regularly to form a faint grid behind his swirling, tentacled waves. He probably also treated some leaves to retard their tarnishing, thereby creating a modulation reminiscent of a cloudy sky.

Was Hōitsu simply trying to best his hero? The answer lies in poetry. Hōitsu wrote haikai, a form of lighthearted collaborative poetry in which each poet links his verse to the previous one's. But as Haruo Shirane, author of "Japan and the Culture of the Four Seasons: Nature, Literature, & the Arts" (Columbia University Press, 2012), noted during a symposium that accompanied the exhibition, each poet strives also to tweak the meaning of his predecessor's verse. "Giving it a twist is very important," Mr. Shirane said, suggesting that this "haikai spirit" might also be at work in Hōitsu's paintings.

It is a shame that neither the catalog nor wall text highlighted this particular aspect of haikai, for it unlocks the creative dynamics at play through this and the Met's show. "Waves" contains familiar Kōrin elements, but with a twist—in this case reversals—that reconfigure the composition to form something entirely new. A commitment to this haikai spirit helps explain why Hōitsu disseminated Kōrin's and others' work in reproduction through printed books (some samples are in the show).

And it lends depth to such works as Hōitsu's series "Birds and Flowers of the Twelve Months" (c. 1824-28) that pick up on a classical theme but alter the coupling of flora and fauna and make lavish use of the wet-on-wet tarashikomi brushstroke. Quickly, before the ink or watercolor dried, Hōitsu added a second "brushload" that diffused and spread inside the first pool, creating a smooth mottling.

Sōtatsu had developed this technique, and it is well worth heading to the Met's show to see wonderful examples of his work. Nor is this the only reason. John T. Carpenter, Met curator for Japanese art, offers up examples of recognizable haikai interplay even though the selection sometimes feels a tad too broad, running the risk of diluting Rinpa into little more than a highly decorative aesthetic.

Still, the shows inform one another beautifully. The final gallery of the Hōitsu show, for instance, features works by his pupil Suzuki Kiitsu (1796-1858), who variously applies tarashikomi to the depiction of mountains, riffs on Hōitsu's subtle grids with a pattern of large rectangles and squares, and harkens back to his teacher's "Waves" in the composition of giant morning glories roaming across two six-paneled screens. His palette of gold, blues and greens, however, recalls Kōrin's "Irises at Yatsuhashi," which is on view at the Met. Thus a theme that begins at the Japan Society wends its way uptown.

Ms. Lawrence is a writer in Brooklyn, N.Y.

Show More Archives

Popular on WSJ

Editors’ Picks