The crystalline grisaille world of Kazuko Mukoyama reflected perfectly the bleak, cold and gray weather of the day I visited The Hermitage Museum.  The snug and cozy home cum museum serves as an appealing counterpoint to the vastness of the craggy and mostly mountainous imagery that comprises this body of work. 

Described in museum materials as being “created in response to the trauma of the Kobe earthquake of 1995,” these ink on rice paper paintings betray no hint of their inspiration.  To further quote museum materials, “Mukoyama’s paintings do not show the tragic aftermath of the disaster.  Instead, she reaches to the subconscious with dreamlike imagery. Working with harsh, raw lines, she stabs the paper with dry brushes creating images of sharp mountain crags.”

This disconnect between image and intention raises questions about the function of art as a vehicle for communication between artist and viewer versus a kind of therapeutic device through which artists process their own thoughts, feelings and experience.  Though her brushstrokes are said to “reveal her psychological state,” if Mukoyama wants viewers to understand anything about the earthquake, then she has failed miserably.  However, if she cares little that viewers understand the particularity of her initial impetus and more that they respond to the resulting contemplative imagery, then she has succeeded.   

With one foot in the centuries old tradition of Nanga—Chinese “Southern Style” painting appropriated by the Japanese c. 1600—and the other in the contemporary world of so-called “Western” oil painting, Mukoyama, who hails from Kobe, Japan, creates works that feel traditional, yet fresh.  Her most successful pieces are either devoid of color or reveal subtle blushes of warm and cool tones.  When she uses color more assertively, the images lose their austere remoteness and become pedestrian, as her strength appears not to be as a colorist.

One of the most riveting pieces in the show—perhaps, in part, because of its contrast with the mountains, mist and moons—is a large interior painting of a spiral staircase.  Like ladders or windows, spiral staircases are ready-made metaphors.  In the hands of lesser artists, any of these architectural features could easily become trite. 

However, here, the realistic, yet idiosyncratic, staircase functions on the level of poetry rather than illustration, suggesting through its double-helix-like form what the artist intended: “the constant upward movement of life’s journey,” yet in a cyclical fashion.  It also purportedly conveys the way “the world may look different at each turning point.” Though a compelling concept, it can only be inferred from the experience of climbing such a staircase, as there is little about the artist’s handling of pictorial space that suggests such a changing viewpoint.

Similarly, in relation to this and other pieces, didactic panels in the gallery refer to Mukoyama’s use of a “shifting perspective.”  Perhaps I need someone to point out exactly what is meant, as I couldn’t perceive the shift, as intriguing as it sounds.  In the case of this staircase, what is depicted could be viewed from a fixed point, albeit by moving one’s eyes up and down.  But that is different, at least to my way of thinking, than a perspective shift which calls to mind the pictorial devices of, for example, Cubism.

Shift or no shift, in the two galleries that comprise the exhibition, Mukoyama’s paintings are handsomely juxtaposed with functional and decorative pieces from the Hermitage’s permanent collection of Asian objects: Japanese sword guards (tsubas), and intricately carved ivories.  Both cultural and formal echoes abound, adding layers of interest to the viewing experience.  

Look for additional layers provided by a range of public programming—even sushi making—throughout the run of the exhibition.