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The quietness of battlefields. Kobayashi Kiyochika and the battle of Yalu River.



Kobayashi Kiyochika (1847–1915), “ Our Scout Reconnoiters the Enemy Encampment near the Yalu River” (Waga sekko Ōryokkō fukin ni tekijin o ukagau zu, 我斤候鴨緑江附近に敵陣を窺ふ圖), nishiki-e (color woodblock print), second half of 1884.



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During the First Sino-Japanese War of 1884-1885, Japan launched one of the earliest large-scale, state-sponsored public relations campaigns. While the war itself was driven by Japan's emerging imperial ambitions and lingering anxieties from the failed Hideyoshi invasions of the 16th century, Meiji officials sought to frame it differently for the international community. They aimed to portray the Empire as a modern power, with its military personnel embodying heroism, gallantry, and unwavering loyalty to the Meiji Emperor. All the officers were true gentlemen and all the foot soldiers were brave and loyal subjects of the Meiji Emperor. To achieve this, both the Navy and Army—despite their fierce daily rivalry—welcomed a substantial number of Japanese and foreign war correspondents, photographers, and artists. Notably, Japanese woodblock artists played a significant role in depicting war scenes, utilizing a medium that remained highly effective for communicating with the broader Japanese populace. While photography and Western-style prints captured the interest of intellectuals in urban centers, traditional woodblock prints still resonated more deeply with the less educated segments of society, offering a familiar and natural visual narrative.


A particularly prominent role was given to large triptychs, which allowed for an expanded portrayal of idealized, heroic figures. These celebrated individuals, depicted in pristine, freshly pressed uniforms of the imperial army or navy, were shown fearlessly risking their lives for the glory of the Meiji Emperor.


During this period, Japan was undergoing rapid social and technological transformations, leading to significant shifts in philosophy and aesthetics. Traditional color woodblock prints, known as ukiyo-e, were closely associated with the Edo shogunate and began to fall out of favor. They were gradually supplanted by Western photography and printing techniques, particularly lithography. However, the outbreak of the Sino-Japanese War unexpectedly sparked a brief resurgence in the popularity of the old woodblock technique. The term "ukiyo-e," which literally means "pictures of the floating world" (or metaphorically, "pictures of the fleeting world"), originally referred to the leisure activities and entertainment districts of Edo. As the same technique began to be applied to new subjects, it was given the straightforward name of "hanga," or "woodblock pictures." For artists, this revival brought an unexpected windfall, greatly improving both their financial standing and the social recognition of their work.


Although the final decades of the 19th century are sometimes nostalgically referred to as the "sunset" of ukiyo-e, since the genre was already in decline, the reality of its artist looked grim. The Sino-Japanese War presented an opportunity, but surprisingly, when we narrow our focus from the broader pool of talented woodblock artists of the time to the three most renowned —Yoshitoshi, Kyōsai, and Kiyochika — only one of them, Kiyochika engaged in creating war - themed woodblock prints and even his works often diverged from the more jingoistic images produced by his more fervent contemporaries.


 Kawanabe Kyōsai (1831–1889), known for his grotesque and surreal depictions of Japanese ghosts, demons, and other creatures populating the folk lore, had little interest in military subjects. Additionally, his advancing illness gradually forced him to withdraw from artistic production. Tsukioka Yoshitoshi (1839–1892), the second of these masters, was only 45 at the onset of the war and was already celebrated for his portraits of historical scenes and "yakusha-e," or images of kabuki actors, often depicted in dramatic dueling scenes. Despite his apparent suitability for producing impactful war imagery, Yoshitoshi didn’t seem to be interested in this subject. Earlier he created a handful of images from the Boshin War (Japanese civil war), which were done in a conservative and somewhat stiff style that did not resonate strongly with the audience.



 [Tsukioka Yoshitoshi, "Chronicle of the Conquest of Kagoshima: Officer Nozu Retrieves the National Flag During a Battle at the Mouth of the Takase River", (Kagoshima seito ki no uchi, 鹿児島征討記之内) nishiki-e, 1877]


At the same time, his student, Kobayashi Toshimitsu, today largely forgotten, gained significant popularity with a series of prints from the frontlines of the Sino-Japanese War, which depicted Chinese soldiers as cowardly, monstrous creatures, efficiently defeated by gallant Japanese officers and soldiers.



[Kobayashi Toshimitsu, "Fierce Battle at Pyongyang" (Pyonyan gekisen no zu, 平壌激戰之圖), nishiki-e, 1884]


Both Yoshitoshi and Kyōsai remained too faithful to the tradition, too deeply rooted in the spirit of ukiyo-e, with Yoshitoshi following the legacy of the Toyokuni school and Kyōsai continuing the paths pioneered by Hokusai.


Eventually, it was Kiyochika, the youngest of the three, who emerged as the most innovative. Having spent several years experimenting with Western techniques, he skillfully integrated foreign methods with the local woodblock tradition, ultimately establishing himself as the leading master of senso-e, or war imagery. His prints introduced new and creative forms of expression, and their freshness and originality set a standard that many lesser-known artists sought to emulate.

 

 

The strategic significance of the Yalu River, which today marks the border between North Korea and China, has been recognized in every major military conflict in the region, from the First Sino-Japanese War to the Korean War of 1950-1953. In 1894, the Japanese General Staff identified control of the Yalu River, particularly the section where it meets the Yellow Sea, as a crucial objective in their campaign on the Korean Peninsula. On September 17th, 1894, just one day after capturing Pyongyang, Japanese forces launched the largest sea-land operation of the war.


While the main battle took place at sea, success relied also on the successful landing of the 5th Division of the Imperial Army near Incheon. This maneuver aimed to engage enemy troops in the area and, more importantly, provoke the Chinese Beiyang Fleet into action, putting them at a disadvantage against the Japanese battleships and cruisers. The operation was designed to culminate in another, much larger landing on the opposite side of the bay, in the Tianjin-Tangshan area, directly threatening Beijing and compelling the Chinese to surrender.


A sound tactical approach, combined with the superior training and motivation of the Japanese troops, led to one of the Japanese military's greatest victories. From that point forward, until the formal peace negotiations in April 1895, Japanese forces maintained the upper hand.


Kiyochika decided to express this triumph in a surprisingly low-key representation, depicting a deceptively quiet, nocturnal scene of the hills and cliffs overlooking the Yalu River and Dalian Bay. In the artwork, a solitary Japanese officer is shown conducting reconnaissance of enemy positions. Although each of the three woodblock prints can stand alone, they are intricately connected through both composition and structure, centered around a central motif and unified by landscape elements that span across the separate sheets.



The composition has been dominated by the sharp, black form of the Japanese officer in the center. He stands motionless atop a high cliff, gazing out over the enemy ships and encampments below.  His lowered hand rests loosely on the rests on the hilt of the sword. While it might be tempting to assume this is a traditional samurai sword, it is actually a kyū guntō (旧軍刀), or "old military sword," a weapon carried by Imperial forces from the beginning of the Meiji era until the end of World War II.


Designed by General Murata Tsuneyoshi — hence sometimes referred to as "Murata-tō" — this sword incorporated features from French, German, and American sabers of the period, most notably a wraparound hand guard and a chrome-plated scabbard. These elements were combined with blades that retained the distinctive appearance of samurai swords from earlier eras. Due to the demands of military production, these swords had to be mass-produced, meaning they couldn’t match the exceptional craftsmanship of the finest traditional swords. However, they were consistently of reasonably high quality. With the deep formal bow toward the past and the eager acceptance of modern technology, kyū guntō marked the symbolic transition. The time of legendary samurai single-handedly vanquishing hordes of enemies had passed, giving way to a time of modern efficiency, where the old ways could – and should – be remembered in carefully chosen forms, but otherwise gently pushed aside. It’s worth noting that some kyū guntō were occasionally handmade to order by master swordsmiths, and these exceptional pieces were in no way inferior to the revered blades of the past.


The officer's coat creates an area of deep black, with the bright, slender curves of the baldric and sword cutting through the darkness. This contrast adds dynamism to the silhouette, suggesting a power momentarily paused but ready to spring into action at any moment. The overall effect is reminiscent of the techniques used by ukiyo-e artists, particularly in theatrical prints and portraits of famous kabuki actors, such as those created by Yoshitoshi in Kiyochika’s time.  This technique captures a sudden moment of stillness - called mie in kabuki theater - poised in the balance between dramatic bursts of action, and metaphorically highlights the fragile tranquility of the scene, both presenting the hero, and underscoring the dynamics hidden behind stillness. The calm of the night at the river’s mouth only thinly veils the underlying tension of the wartime setting.


The intense focus on the officer's image in the center, combined with the dynamic stillness of this part of the composition, contrasts with the more linear, fluid forms of the surrounding landscape, establishing a clear visual hierarchy within the picture. Every element in the picture is subordinated to the central figure of the officer. For Japanese audiences, just like the representation of the Japanese officer established dominance over the pictorial landscape around, in real world, the Imperial Army dominated on the battlefields of the Korean Peninsula.



In the left panel, Kiyochika placed the officer’s horse, presented with striking perspective foreshortening, enhanced by a careful use of light and shadow. This technique, still new in Japanese art, contrasts with the dramatic silhouette of the tree behind the horse and the scattered rocks on the ground, elements deeply rooted in the ukiyo-e landscape tradition and familiar from Hiroshige’s prints.


Kiyochika earlier frequently referenced Hiroshige’s works in his own “civilian” pieces, reinterpreting older motifs, structures, and themes — sometimes even paying homage by slightly altered titles, such as “100 Views of Tokyo” in place of “100 Views of Edo.” However, the color palette in this panel diverges significantly from that of the old master. Kiyochika limits his colors to siennas and grays, creating a harmonious visual effect that avoids distracting viewer’s attention from the central panel. The deep black of the saddle blanket echoes, on a smaller scale, the darkness of the officer’s coat. The subtle application of the chiaroscuro, delicate moonlit shadows, and relaxed, free shapes are modern modifications of the traditional genre, made possible by Kiyochika’s earlier experiments with Western techniques.



The composition of the triptych is completed by the left panel, which offers a tranquil, almost meditative depiction of a nocturnal landscape. Here, the dark waters of a river merge with the sea, partially illuminated by the bright circle of the moon in the upper part of the scene, while partially obscured by clouds. The deep shadows of the waters and distant hills are punctuated by several areas of red glow, emanating from ships and encampments.


While the color palette and structural elements unify the composition around the central figure of the Japanese officer, the margins of each print form together a substitute of a picture frame, simultaneously surrounding and dividing the wholeness of the image. This creates a sense familiar from older ukiyo-e prints, where the viewers take on the role of observers, gazing out from an open window at the scene unfolding before them. It should be noticed that for Kiyochika’s contemporary Japanese audience, the visual dominance of the central figure over the surrounding Yalu landscape could easily be interpreted as an allegory of the entire military conflict, with the Japanese army and navy asserting control over some outlandish territory.


Despite undertones of imperial propaganda, more discerning viewers would likely have appreciated the aesthetic quality of Kiyochika’s work. Through a delicate harmony of colors—some vibrant, some subdued—cast over a complex yet perfectly balanced structure of dynamic, linear forms, Kiyochika created a visual equivalent of a musical nocturne. In this suspended moment of calm and quiet, the fleeting serenity cannot entirely mask the underlying brutality of the scene’s context.

 

Kiyochika’s surprisingly subdued and introspective depiction of the Battle of the Yalu River evokes memories of a different conflict—one in which he himself took part, wielding a samurai sword. On January 17, 1868, shogun Tokugawa Yoshinobu declared his refusal to recognize the restoration of imperial rule, urging the court to reverse it. He followed the declaration with a fateful decision to military confront the rebellious samurai and ronin, by advancing loyal troops toward Kyoto, the emperor's seat and the stronghold of his adversaries.  The resulting battle started on the third day, first month, fourth year of Keiō, according to the traditional calendar, or on 27 January 1868 in the Western reckoning.


Though outnumbered three to one, the anti-shogunate forces were trained in Western military strategies and armed with modern weapons, including British Armstrong howitzers, French Minié rifles, and even an American Gatling gun - the latest innovation in warfare, patented just six years earlier on November 4, 1862. The battle, which lasted four days, marked a final point of the Bakufu rule. Despite the numerical advantage of the shogunate, the pro-imperial forces, through a mix of military engagements and strategic legal and diplomatic actions—such as a pro forma appointment of Prince Yoshiaki as commander-in-chief, thereby designating their army as "imperial" and branding their opponents as traitors—secured a decisive victory. Ancien régime went down to the rhythm of a machine gun fire.


Symbolically, the traditional calendar, which combined lunar and imperial elements, endured, along with other more decorative cultural traditions, but Japanese society was irrevocably set on a path toward modernization and Westernization. Kiyochika-the-samurai, the son of a devoted retainer of the shogun and a loyal supporter himself, fought on the losing side of this battle. Fifteen years had passed and once again the modern tactics and modern weapons triumphed on the battlefield, but this time Kiyochika-the-artist served the winning side, his prints bearing witness to the unstoppable march of the Imperial Army, direct successors of the forces that had won at Toba-Fushimi. Could the irony of this situation be lost on Kiyochika, the last true artist of the floating world — a world that no longer existed?


More than a century later, Kobayashi Kiyochika is revered as the last great master of Japanese woodblock prints, an artist who successfully bridged the transition into the modern era. His death in 1915 marks a pivotal moment in the history of this art form, coinciding with the emergence of a revival that reimagined traditional woodblock prints. This revival, led by Watanabe Shozaburo through the Shin Hanga Undo, or "New Woodblock Movement," infused the art with a sense of nostalgia and a subtle Western influence, giving it a renewed life in the early 20th century.


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