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Public Properties by Noriko Aso

Public Properties by Noriko Aso

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A historical account of how museums in Japan and its empire contributed to the reimagining of state and society during Japan's imperial era, from 1868 until 1945.
A historical account of how museums in Japan and its empire contributed to the reimagining of state and society during Japan's imperial era, from 1868 until 1945.

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Published by: Duke University Press on Oct 25, 2013
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Public Properties

museums in imperial japan

Noriko Aso


Public Properties

Museums in Imperial Japan

Noriko Aso

Duke University Press Durham and London 2014

© 2014 Duke University Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America on acid-­ free paper ♾ Designed by Heather Hensley Typeset in Arno Pro by Tseng Information Systems, Inc. Library of Congress Cataloging-­ in-­ Publication Data Aso, Noriko. Public properties : museums in imperial Japan / Noriko Aso. pages cm—(Asia-­ Pacific) (Study of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8223-5413-0 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8223-5429-1 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Museums—Japan—History—19th century. 2. Art, Japanese— Meiji period, 1868–1912. 3. Japan—Intellectual life—Western influences. I. Title. II. Series: Asia-­ Pacific. III. Series: Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute, Columbia University. am77.a2a75 2013 069.0952′09034—dc23 2013018958

The Weatherhead East Asian Institute is Columbia University’s center for research, publication, and teaching on modern and contemporary East Asia regions. The Studies of the Weatherhead East Asian Institute were inaugurated in 1962 to bring to a wider public the results of significant new research on modern and contemporary East Asia.


Illustrations  ix Acknowledgments  xi Introduction  1 Chapter 1 Stating the Public 13 Chapter 2 Imperial Properties 63 Chapter 3 Colonial Properties 95 Chapter 4 The Private Publics of Ōhara, Shibusawa, and Yanagi 127 Chapter 5 Consuming Publics 169 Epilogue  203 Notes  223 Bibliography  279 Index  297


Figure I.1: Visitors to the Shōsōin Imperial Treasures Special Exhibit 2 Figure 1.1: Eighteenth-­ century kaichō 17 Figure 1.2: Catalogue of museum displays, zoological section, 1877 22 Figure 1.3: The Vienna world’s fair of 1873 24 Figure 1.4: The Japan exhibit at the London world’s fair of 1862 26 Figure 1.5: Bronze pagoda displayed at the Chicago world’s fair of

1893 29
Figure 1.6: Japanese marble displayed at the Chicago world’s fair of

1893 29
Figure 1.7: Second National Exposition of 1881 34 Figure 1.8: Fifth National Exposition held in Osaka, 1903 38 Figure 1.9: Transportation Building at the Fifth National Exposition

(Osaka) in 1903 41
Figure 1.10: Palace of Fine Arts at the Chicago world’s fair of 1893 41 Figure 1.11: Aichi Prefecture Bazaar at the Fifth National Exposition

(Osaka) in 1903 42
Figure 1.12: Formosa Building at the Fifth National Exposition (Osaka)

in 1903 42
Figure 1.13: Yushima Seidō in 1872 52 Figure 1.14: Yamashita-­ monnai museum 53

Figure 1.15: Viewing Art at the 1877 First National Exposition by Andō

Hiroshige 57
Figure 1.16: Exhibit cases on the second floor of the Ueno museum 58 Figure 1.17: Commemorative photograph of those involved in preparing for

the Vienna world’s fair of 1873 60
Figure 2.1: Kyoto museum gates 79 Figure 2.2: Tokyo Imperial Museum in 1938 81 Figure 2.3: The Tokyo Imperial Museum with elementary schoolchildren

helping with landscaping 81
Figure 3.1: Government-­ General Museum of Taiwan 98 Figure 3.2: Korean exhibit at the Chicago world’s fair of 1893 111 Figure 3.3: Government-­ General Museum of Korea 113 Figure 4.1: Ōhara Museum of Art 134 Figure 4.2: Attic Museum artifacts 142 Figure 4.3: Japan Folk Crafts Museum 156 Figure 4.4: Interior of the Japan Folk Crafts Museum 157 Figure 5.1: Nihombashi (main) branch of Mitsukoshi 170 Figure 5.2: Display cases and counters at the Nihombashi branch of

Mitsukoshi 176
Figure 5.3: Mitsukoshi central hall 177 Figure 5.4: Model daughter of the house 182 Figure 5.5: Notice of art exhibit published in Mitsukoshi 195


These acknowledgments are just the briefest sketch: there is really

no way to adequately express my thanks to the many people and institutions that have helped me while pursuing this project. Edwin McClellan’s advice sent me to the University of Chicago, where this project began as a doctoral dissertation. William Sibley, Norma Field, Harry Harootunian, Tetsuo Najita, and Leora Auslander gave wise and warm guidance as well as ongoing inspiration. Bill has left us, but the community he nurtured will always remember his great kindness, dry wit, and deceptively casual brilliance. In Tokyo, many scholars, including Kano Masanao, Satō Kenji, Kinoshita Naoyuki, Kobayashi Mari, Igarashi Akio, Narita Ryūichi, and Yoshimi Shun’ya, have been boundlessly generous and patient with me over the years. Yoshimi’s Hakurankai no seijigaku redefined the field just as I was getting started. While affiliated with the University of Tokyo’s wonderful program in cultural resource studies, I was further introduced to the fine work and friendship of the then students Park Sohyun and Lin Pei-­Yu and the fellow Tze M. Loo. I would also like to express my deep appreciation for the open doors and unforgettable experiences made possible by Sugiyama Takeshi and his colleagues at the Japan Folk Crafts Museum. Shibusawa Masahide, Koide Izumi, Kusumoto Wakako, and Inoue Jun of the Shibusawa Eiichi Memorial Foundation, and Kitsukawa Toshitada and Katsuki Yōichirō of the Institute for the Study of Japanese Folk Culture

at Kanagawa University, have further extended extraordinary kindness and assistance. Fellow students in Chicago, Tokyo, and elsewhere were and are my teachers as well as friends. A very partial list includes Bob Adams, Kim Brandt, Susan Burns, Alan Christy, Kevin and Therese Doak, Gerald Figal, Aaron Gerow, Beth Harrison, Takahiko Hayashi, Douglas Howland, Yoshikuni Igarashi, Helen Koh, Kim Kono, Tom Lamarre, Tom Looser, Debbie Lunny, Bill Marrotti, Janice Matsumura, Elizabeth McSweeney-­ Cobb, Valerie Mendoza, Martin and Jacqueline Messick, Abe Markus Nornes, Okamoto Koichi, Leslie Pincus, Suzanne Ryan, Barbara Sato, Hatsue Shinohara, Kentaro Tomio, Gennifer Weisenfeld, Daqing Yang, Marcia Yonemoto, and Ida Yoshinaga. Andrew Hare’s perspective on the world of art conservation is warmly witty and always illuminating. Stefan Tanaka finished up at Chicago before I arrived, but he has been a generous mentor. While finishing the dissertation and after, I was honored to have the opportunity to teach and pursue research at the Ohio State University (osu), Portland State University (psu), San Francisco State University (sfsu), and the University of California, Santa Cruz (ucsc), all proud public institutions. I would like to convey my deepest gratitude and admiration toward my former colleagues at osu, psu, and sfsu, including Angela Brintlinger, Philip Brown, Steven Conn, Michael Hogan, David Johnson, Larry Kominz, Maji Rhee, Patricia Schechter, Mary Scott, Julie Smith, Linda Walton, and Patricia Wetzel. As for the wonderful colleagues, staff, and students I work with in the History Department at ucsc, I regularly have to pinch myself to make sure this is not just a dream. I would like to give further thanks to my faculty mentor, Buchanan Sharp, and to the members of the East Asian reading group—Gail Hershatter, Emily Honig, Alan Christy, Minghui Hu, Alice Yang, Catherine Chang, Rebecca Corbett, and Su-­ Kyoung Hwang—who suffered through multiple iterations of each chapter. Cheryl Barkey, Sakae Fujita, Jennifer Gonzalez, Lyn Jeffry, Kate Jones, Stacy Kamehiro, Cat Ramirez, Shiho Satsuka, and Vanita Seth kept nudging me forward with conviviality and practical advice. The Japanese Arts and Globalization research group, founded by Miriam Wattles for the University of California system and beyond, has been a wonderful extended community that gave me excellent feedback on the final chapter for this book. The anonymous reviewers for my midcareer and tenure files, as well as Kathy Chetkovich and Mark Selden, further provided invaluable suggestions for the project. Finally, I would like to express my deep appreciation for the patience and support of Ken Wissoker, Jade Brooks,
• xii •

and everyone who helped bring this book to fruition at Duke University Press, including the thought-­ provoking yet generous anonymous readers. The book greatly benefited from this process, and any shortcomings are solely my own. The Tokyo National Museum, National Diet Library, Mitsukoshi-­Isetan Holdings, the Japan Folk Crafts Museum, the Shibusawa Eiichi Memorial Foundation, the Ōhara Museum of Art, and the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Duke University, were all exceedingly gracious in granting permission to reproduce images for this book. This project was pursued and completed with the generous support of the Committee on Institutional Cooperation, the Japanese Ministry of Education, the Ohio State University Humanities Fellowship Program, the Itoh Scholarship Foundation, the Social Science Research Council’s Japan Society for the Promotion of Science Fellowship, the uc President’s Research Fellowship in the Humanities, the ucsc Committee on Research, and the ucsc Institute for Humanities Research. On a more personal note, I would like to thank my very first and beloved teachers, my parents, Takenori and Carol Aso. Michitake Aso is my brother, dear friend, and (secretly) hero. Alan Christy has been a true partner in life as well as work. I cherish our time growing together. Our children, Peter and Samuel Christy, keep my joints moving and my heart and mind open to the world’s wonders. I am grateful.

• xiii •


A grand staircase anchors the center of a stately, high-­ ceilinged foyer. Two long queues of patiently intent visitors fill a broad hall­

way on the right, channeled by wooden gates and gesturing officials. There are almost as many women as men, the former in elegant kimonos with fur-­ collared wraps and the latter in Western suits and hats, a few in uniform. A mother tightly clasps the hand of her young son as they turn around a corner to go up the stairs, which are divided from top to bottom by a rope. Incomers tightly pack the right side, but those on the left have a bit more room on their way out. Two schoolboys pause to lean over the banister to gawk as small groups wait at the base for straggling members of their parties. Meanwhile, another crowd hovers at a separate entrance, waiting to be directed in small numbers past and under the staircase. The overall mood is lively but orderly, good-­ humored but contained. The setting was the Tokyo Imperial Household Museum (Tokyo Teishitsu Hakubutsukan), now known as the Tokyo National Museum (Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan; tkh). The event was the Shōsōin Imperial Treasures Special Exhibit (Shōsōin gyobutsu tokubetsu tenrankai), which opened on November 5, 1940, in conjunction with the commemoration of the 2,600th anniversary celebration of the Japanese empire (Kigen 2600-­ nen Kinen Gyōji). Attendance for the twenty-­ day exhibit—417,361— exceeded all previous annual totals for the museum.1 The charged

Fig I.1: Illustration by Noma Seiroku of visitors to the Shōsōin Imperial Treasures Special Exhibit, held at the Tokyo Imperial Household Museum in 1940. Reprinted with permission from the Tokyo National Museum; this image may not be reproduced without tnm permission.

atmosphere was captured by Noma Seiroku (1902–66), a member of the museum’s arts division, in a series of illustrations titled Snake Story: The Shōsōin Imperial Treasures Exhibit Picture Scroll (Kuchinawa monogatari: Shōsōin gyobutsu tenran emaki).2 This sketch (figure I.1) by Noma portrays an imperial era (1868–1945) museum as a crowd scene, in contrast to the more common practice at the time of representing museums as architecture, artifacts, or a place for individuals to commune with a particular work or display.3 I too aim to foreground the public nature of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-­ century Japanese museums—not to celebrate the existence of museum crowds as such, but to trace how they came to be imagined in relation to the central state. I examine museums—whether established by the central government, Japanese colonial administrations, commercial institutions, or private individuals—as sites specifically designed to call imperial publics into existence. Large crowds gathering in the Tokyo National Museum to view displays of Japanese art-­historical heritage are common today, but this has not always been the case. Noma recorded the mass enthusiasm for the Shōsōin exhibit of 1940 as a moment of institutional triumph.4 Moreover, the particular configuration of class, gender, nation, popular appeal, and orderly behavior that he vividly portrayed was the fruit of decades of effort to root museums within the modern Japanese cultural landscape. The question is how such cultural practices came to be seen as a desirable norm. For example, since the treasures of Shōsōin had been safeguarded in sacred
• 2 •

storage for centuries until the Meiji era (1868–1912), why did the modern Japanese state risk bringing them out to put on view? Why was access given to anyone who could purchase a ticket? While popular displays of the marvelous and strange had drawn large street crowds since the Tokugawa period (1600–1867), they were often raucous affairs and certainly not state sponsored. How did the museum audience come to be so respectable and well behaved? What is more, standing in queues for long periods to eventually get the chance to peer over someone else’s shoulder to catch a partial glimpse of a glassed-­ in object is not necessarily an obvious source of pleasure. Granted the opportunity, why did these people choose to spend their leisure time in this manner? What sense of connection to the artifacts, more academic than amusing, were these men, women, soldiers, and schoolchildren all supposed to share? Answers to these questions were closely entwined with the cultivation of a modern national identity in Japan from the mid-­ nineteenth century. The organizational role performed by nation (kokka) and Japan (Nihon) in the Meiji establishment of the fields of art and art history has been subject to critical scrutiny in a series of major works by Satō Dōshin.5 Also in the field of art history, Alice Tseng has analyzed the role of Japanese imperial museums as sites of national self-­ representation.6 In this context, the impressive attendance figures for the Shōsōin exhibit can be seen as evidence of successful nationalist indoctrination. Artifact and viewer were supposed to share a “Japaneseness” that transcended other social identities.7 However, museums in the imperial era can offer more than a case study in the imagining of a national community. Specifically, this book juxtaposes central-­ government museums with colonial and privately established museums to explore elasticity, expansiveness, and divisions in the creation of imperial publics, whose definition and redefinition in relation to the Japanese state were ongoing. Displaying so-­ called heritage artifacts in national museums was certainly meant to bolster state and imperial prestige. The question of what this legacy was and what objects and images should be used to represent it, however, had to be answered anew in Japanese colonial museums, precisely because their charge was to cultivate a sense of shared imperial identity within different ethnic populations. Moreover, even as museums promoted popular investment in such ideas as imperial heritage, they opened the door to assessment from outside the state. The very possibility of creating alternative aesthetic canons in private museums emerged from this productive tension. In short, ongoing negoIntroduction
• 3 •

tiation of who exhibits, why, and to whom, all of which in turn profoundly affect what is exhibited, was and is critical to the expansion of the museum form. Without a viewing public, a museum is simply a collection, not a cultural institution. The Tokugawa era (1600–1867) boasted a lively domestic culture of popular display, but it did not enjoy official state sponsorship. Accordingly, the first chapter, “Stating the Public,” begins by looking at the newly established Meiji regime’s translation of Western exposition and museum practices for a domestic Japanese audience, characterized from the start by multiplicity, experimentation, and negotiation. The most effective terms to convey the nature and function of these modern cultural institutions were by no means obvious: early Japanese observers at first relied on vocabulary that emphasized the sheer multitude of objects in sites such as the Smithsonian before they worked toward definitions pointing at the critical function of public outreach. This was not seen in Japan as merely an academic exercise. Political and economic factors drove the Meiji government from the early 1870s to actively engage in “exhibitionary” culture, which was then approaching its zenith in Europe and America. Most immediately, the state’s goal was to raise Japan’s international profile to gain a share in global markets and to harness for its own ends the symbolic tools of Euro-­ American imperial power. The Meiji government worked to change classification of Japanese entries in Western world’s fairs from primitive handicrafts to civilized art, even as it adapted Western exposition methods for asserting civilizational superiority in Asia, with neoclassical architecture reserved for central-­ government pavilions, traditional Japanese styles for regional pavilions, and exotic structures for imperial colonies. Meanwhile, the first government museum was established to serve as both a way station and permanent exposition. Conceived as a tool for mass education in an Enlightenment vein, the museum initially emphasized natural science and technology. It was a mechanism to mobilize the populace for industrialization. For this reason, carnivalesque elements in Tokugawa display culture were suppressed to create a modern museum-­ going public. New measures ranged from expanding days of operation, in order to encourage attendance by members of the working class, to rules for appropriate behavior, such as prohibiting clogs and dogs. From the 1880s, however, the encyclopedic museum model began to lose ground in the course of reworking the government museum, its properties, and its nascent public as “imperial” in policy and practice. As chap­ ter 2,
• 4 •

“Imperial Properties,” explores, this meant placing the original museum under Imperial Household Ministry control, reconstituting the collection in an art-­ historical rather than scientific vein, and constructing new museums with gates, entrances, and rooms exclusively reserved for imperial family members. The category of imperial was itself being redefined at the time to serve as a mediating buffer in negotiating the boundaries between state and society and public and private. Of particular relevance to museums were the bureaucratic debates on how to create the general category of imperial property, which resulted in a major transfer of land and other resources from various sectors of society to possession by the imperial family, a form of privatization in the name of public good. With the shift of government museums into the emperor’s portfolio, state cultural authority was personalized in the figure of the emperor and his immediate relations, veiling an emergent canon under majesty not to be impoliticly scrutinized. Even as these museums crafted narratives of an aesthetic nation, imperialization kept the publicness of these institutions in check. Visitors were granted a gift of access, not a right. Turn-­of-­the-­century export of the government-­museum form to Japan’s colonies raised new questions regarding the why, how, and who in constituting an imperial public, as examined in chapter 3, “Colonial Properties.” By the mid-­ 1930s, the Japanese museum system had established or absorbed institutions in Taiwan, Korea, Sakhalin, and Manchuria. A handful more were taken over when the Japanese state captured various Western colonial possessions early in the Asia-­Pacific War. Chapter 3 focuses on Taiwan and Korea, where Japanese colonial museums set down the deepest roots and were most active in engaging the local population. Differences in colonial context had a dramatic impact on the nature of the collections and collection processes, giving rise to variant visions of Japanese imperial identity. The Government-­ General Museum of Taiwan (Taiwan Sōtokufu Hakubutsukan), established in 1908, emphasized natural history and anthropology, portraying the island as rich in resources for extraction but in need of Japanese tutelage to rise above a primitive cultural state. In contrast, the Yi Royal Family Museum (Ri Ōke Hakubutsukan) in Seoul, opened in 1909, represented a complex maneuver on the part of the colonial government-­ general: established in the name of the Korean royal family to cloak Japanese rule, the museum was also intended to undermine the royal family by appropriating private palace grounds for a public museum. (Japanese interest in destabilizing the Korean royal line was
• 5 •

no secret after the assassination of Empress Myeongseong, commonly referred to as Queen Min, in 1895.) In the Yi Royal Family Museum, ancient—not modern—Korean art on display was co-­ opted for the Japanese empire. These colonial institutions cultivated Taiwanese and Korean publics to serve Japanese interests, but the institutions also left a legacy of practices and materials that framed local identity in ways that later were turned against Japan itself, while being redeployed within a complex and divided postcolonial landscape. Even as the Japanese state expanded its exhibitionary infrastructure at home and abroad, private museums began to dot the early twentieth-­ century landscape. Chapter 4, “The Private Publics of Ōhara, Shibusawa, and Yanagi,” takes a more individualized look at three museum projects that directly criticized the state for representing the nation only in terms defined by a central elite. Ōhara Magosaburō (1880–1943) challenged the cultural hegemony of Tokyo by transforming Kurashiki in Okayama Prefecture into a “New Elysium.” The crown jewel of his efforts was the Ōhara Museum of Art, which provided unprecedented access to original works by such contemporary Western artists as Claude Monet and Paul Gauguin. Shibusawa Keizō’s (1896–1963) proposal for a “folk” museum of economic history presented a detailed plan for a public institution to honor nonelite contributions to national development. While this project was never completed, it was to include such features as a showcase for portraits of ordinary businessmen, industrialists, scholars, inventors, and farmers, whose contributions were not acknowledged within the “great man” school of history. In a comparable manner, Yanagi Muneyoshi (1889–1961) founded the Japan Folk Crafts Museum (Nihon Mingeikan) to offer a vision of national aesthetic heritage that valorized the everyday, commonplace, and useful. Posed as a counterpoint rather than a supplement to the imperial canon, the museum also sought to attract the same metropolitan bourgeois public that earnestly attended the Shōsōin exhibit. All three of these private-­ sector museums represented early twentieth-­ century attempts to shift some degree of government authority over to nongovernmental hands, and to serve social interests that the central state was seen as having failed to acknowledge. Japanese department stores provide an institutional, in contrast to individual, window into this broader effort to stake “private” claims to a “public” form of authority through exhibition. Chapter 5, “Consuming Publics,” traces the early twentieth-­ century emergence of department stores as culIntroduction
• 6 •

tural showcases, in the process revisiting various aspects of modern Japanese exhibitionary culture. While informed by such Western retailers as Harrods, Japanese department stores developed in a particularly close relationship with national expositions and museums. Soon department stores positioned themselves alongside—and sometimes in competition with— state cultural institutions. While loyally flying the national flag and marketing such patriotic goods as Russo-­Japanese War handkerchiefs, department stores established their own credentials by holding art and art-­ historical exhibitions; organizing research associations with prominent intellectuals, politicians, and bureaucrats of the day; and sponsoring public lectures, roundtables, and publications. In the process, the department stores’ consumer publics—which included women and children as full-­ fledged citizens—merged with broader conceptions of society, nation, and empire. The triumphal claims of Japanese department stores did not go unchallenged in the colonies: the Korean authors Ch’ae Man-­ sik and Yi Sang savagely portrayed the Seoul branch of the Mitsukoshi Department Store as a second-­ rate shrine to Western consumerist capitalism. Moreover, the wartime crisis of the late 1930s and early 1940s provided the state a chance to requisition private sites of publicness. Department stores were transformed into government ration-­ distribution centers and uniform manufacturers, while shelving and escalators were dismantled for war materiel. This reassertion of direct state control underscores the fact that the imperial era’s expansion of publicness had always been subject to strict historical limits. War had brought both material scarcity and new (conquered) facilities to the state museum network, but defeat in 1945 meant Japanese surrender of its colonial possessions. The epilogue offers a look at how the public nature of the national museum system was redefined at the end of the war, during the long postwar era, and in the present. Under American occupation (1945–52), the national museum system was transferred from the emperor to the Ministry of Education. Subsequent reforms were touted as democratization but were administered by bureaucrats who sought to rebrand but not necessarily reimagine Japan as a “cultural nation” (bunka kokka). This New Japan—reliant on rather than resistant to American hegemony—was placed on display in government museums as well as sports facilities during the well-­ received Tokyo Olympics of 1964, after which the security and prestige of the postwar state’s cultural apparatus seemed unassailable. However, as part of a series of sweeping neoliberal
• 7 •

transformations, the national museums were redefined in 2001 as independent and, eventually, self-­ funding entities. A fresh round of heated debate regarding the roles, boundaries, and responsibilities of state and society is well under way. I take up the introduction and entrenchment of the modern museum form in Japan because it is founded on historically shifting conceptualizations of publicness, loosely stitching together state and society, nation and individual, authority and audience. Significantly, Jürgen Habermas included museums, along with coffee houses and salons, as formative locations in his classic study of the rise of the “public sphere” (Öffentlichkeit) as bourgeois practice and ideal in Western Europe in the eighteenth century.8 In particular, Habermas highlighted the way in which museums “institutionalized the lay judgment on art: discussion became the medium through which people appropriated art.”9 This characterization falls in line with his basic narrative of the public sphere as a space of self-­determination; yet the state remains lurking in the background, ready to emerge in later chapters as a crucial entity against which, and with which, the public sphere had to define itself.10 While Habermas emphasized egalitarianism in Western European conceptualizations of the public sphere, various scholars have since pointed to ways in which this forum was deeply riven by tensions between exclusion and inclusion.11 Establishing a public sphere did not necessarily, and certainly not automatically, move historical practices toward more universal participation.12 Accordingly, although the public sphere has been a productive concept in museum studies, contemporary practice has moved toward foregrounding diverse and frequently opposed viewpoints in museum-­ community formation.13 The fierce political and social conflicts embedded within postwar museum exhibits on the Asia-­ Pacific War have, moreover, inspired various scholars in Asian studies to take a closer look at the role of such institutions in shaping historical memories.14 Japanese museums of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries can also be said to have opened up room for claims—such as those made by Ōhara Magosaburō, Shibusawa Keizō, and Yanagi Muneyoshi—to the legitimacy of lay judgment and appropriation.15 Yet the modern state was the driving agent behind imperial-­ era establishment and growth of this institutional form. At the same time, this state was neither monolithic nor uncontested, so multiplicity and friction are central elements in my account. While Habermas has played a foundational role in contemporary deIntroduction
• 8 •

bates on the emergence, potential, and limits of modern publics, and this field has in turn shaped the present work, I am not attempting to read a Habermasian public sphere back into late nineteenth-­ century and early twentieth-­ century Japan. Instead, I have chosen to use such capacious terms as publics and publicness rather than the more codified public sphere.16 Evolving notions of publicness became germane to imperial Japan because a new form of governance had been established, one that required increasingly higher levels of participation on the part of the general population, even as the new state sought to curb and quell its potential. Publicness— neither an exact equivalent for an idealized Western European public sphere nor a neatly bounded alternative—in Japanese museums emerged during this era as a hierarchically structured space of conversation between the state and the general population, eventually including the colonies, which was at the same time part of a hierarchically structured conversation with contemporary Western discourse and practice. This book addresses publicness in the historically specific forms of kō (公) and kōkyō (公共), Japanese terms often used today as equivalent to the English public or public sphere.17 In a process that did not originate in the Meiji Restoration of 1868 but accelerated with it, kō and later kōkyō were two among a host of reworked and invented terms that emerged for rethinking relations between those who governed and those who were governed.18 One particularly dense knot of Japanese words and phrases collectively constituted what we might call nation, including the proper name Nihon (Japan), the more abstract kuni (“domain” in the Tokugawa period, and “country” in the Meiji period), kokka (nation-­ state), and kokumin-­ kokka (ethnic nation-­state), and a host of related words and concepts such as kokutai (national essence).19 A well-­ established, rich, and interlaced body of scholarship has thoroughly explored how the discourse and practice of nation and nationalism took shape in the modern period.20 Moreover, the central state and its bureaucracy—kan, seifu, seidō—have been closely analyzed for their active role in structuring this political terrain, beginning with the new government’s Charter Oath of 1868.21 The emperor (tennō), “restored” as modern head of state, has been similarly scrutinized as a focal point for modern Japanese nationalism.22 Yet, as various Japanese and Western scholars have noted, the question of whether the modern state truly represented the nation has been raised since the late nineteenth century.23 It is not surprising, then, that terms from the imperial era designating the people—including jinmin, shūsho (衆庶), hitobito, tami/
• 9 •

min, minshū, kokumin (national subjects), and later taishū (the masses)— were also diverse, layered, and laden.24 While some political figures called for people’s rights (minken) and others celebrated obedience as the highest virtue of imperial subjects (kōmin), bureaucrats were reconceptualizing governance in biopolitical terms, as the management of an aggregate population.25 Society—yo, seken, sōtai, and shakai—was in turn increasingly invoked both inside and outside of government circles, sometimes as a sector distinct from the state, sometimes as an integral element of a totality most often presumed to be the nation, but on occasion pointing beyond, to humanity or the world.26 Then, as the outlines of an overseas Japanese colonial empire (teikoku) became clearly visible by the early twentieth century, the already multivalent host of terms for nation, people, emperor, state, and society had to be renegotiated again and again.27 Adding kō and kōkyō to the cluster of terms is intended to underscore the interconnectedness of this conceptual network. Kō should not be understood as a transcendent concept that hovered over and explained the others; rather, it performed a bridging function for foreign and domestic conceptions of emperor, nation, state, and society. The chapters that follow look at modern claims to publicness in light of how they opened up a particular space for ongoing negotiations of such concepts as nation, empire, state, and people as they collectively came to dominate discourse in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Sometimes these interactions were fraught, and sometimes they strengthened conceptual associations and the complex as a whole. It is also worth keeping in mind that, although publicness was renegotiated from the nineteenth century in conversation with Western and modern strands of thought, it had a longer genealogy.28 In the seventh and eighth centuries, gong and si (公/私; now generally translated as public and private) were introduced along with many other Chinese governing terms, concepts, and social technologies as part of the establishment of a centralized bureaucratic state headed by the Japanese imperial clan.29 Gong bridged the gap between Chinese ruler and ruled in the sense of “communal matters,” as it was incorporated into character compounds for popular opinion as well as government offices. In Japan, gong was mapped onto the native term ōyake, which had hitherto referred to the governing spheres of the great clans of the archipelago. Redefined as equivalent to kō (the Chinese-­ style reading of the character for gong), ōyake came to form a binary with watakushi or shi (newly coined as Japanese ways of reading the
• 10 •

character si, 私).30 Kō came to encompass both the imperial line miyake (御ヤケ) and the aristocracy (kōmin, 公民), while shi designated matters outside of governmental interest. However, a law passed in 743 that allowed permanent, private possession of newly opened lands initiated a long-­ term process of redefinition.31 Intended to encourage temples, shrines, and aristocrats to invest in bringing new fields under cultivation, this imperial policy paved the way for the rise of shōen estates, defined by their exemption from having to pay tribute or taxes to the central government. Such exceptions came to riddle the theoretically whole cloth of the imperial realm with so many holes that Emperor Go-­ Sanjō (1034–73) introduced reforms that allowed members of the imperial family (with the sole exception of the reigning emperor) to join other members of the elite in diverting “private” revenue streams from the central fisc.32 The result was that the terms ōyake and kō shifted from equivalence with the state apparatus and its officials to the designation of obligations organized by the state across various levels of society, while the terms watakushi and shi were reformulated to refer to matters that fell outside such specified duties. In the process, ōyake and kō and watakushi and shi came to be more tightly interdependent: even as public lands were moved into private status through commendation, state law provided the very foundation for private rights and legitimization for drawing peripheral territory into a centralizing system.33 There was no singular site for either ōyake or watakushi, which together cut through, and united, each tier of society even after the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunal (warrior) regime in the seventeenth century.34 Contemporary usage of the term kō certainly draws on a legacy of strong association with the state, which is why various scholars have discounted the authenticity of a Japanese publicness.35 The modern Japanese state was also unquestionably an important agent in the account of museums as public institutions in the imperial era. On the other hand, such concepts as the state, the emperor, subjects, and the people have long formed a tightly knit and mutually constitutive cluster, albeit one characterized by redefinition from the eighth through the twenty-­ first centuries. Within this constellation, ōyake and kō can serve as a useful barometer for shifting relations between state and society. In the modern imperial era, publicness continued to demarcate a somewhat amorphous and certainly malleable boundary area that partook both of state and society: it was the face the state turned to society, and vice
• 11 •

versa. This publicness should not be seen as equivalent to democracy in some abstract and idealized sense, yet it provided some ground for the emergence of a suffrage movement in the late nineteenth century. While its modern conceptualization was largely born of the Meiji state and its attempt to mobilize the general population, it was also swiftly turned against the state in nationalist and imperialist as well as liberal and progressive critiques. Founded by government and private entities on the fundamental premise that publicness was significant, modern museums offer a concrete case through which we can examine these productive tensions at work in imperial Japan.

• 12 •



1. Attendance figures from “Kanranshasū ichiranhyō,” in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi (Tokyo: Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan, 1973), 663. 2. Noma Seiroku, Kuchinawa monogatari, image no. n87197 in the Tokyo National Museum (tkh) archives. 3. This is not to say that Noma’s emphasis was without precedent: his choice of the term emaki (picture scroll) clearly signaled that he was drawing on an older visual tradition in Japan. Moreover, depicting crowds at museum exhibits became more common in the postwar period, underscoring their eventfulness. 4. Attendance figures from “Kanranshasū ichiranhyō,” in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 663. 5. Among Satō Dōshin’s major works are “Nihon bijutsu” tanjō: Kindai Nihon no “kotoba” to senryaku (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1996); Meiji kokka to kindai bijutsu: Bi no seijigaku (Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbun, 1999); and Bijutsu no aidentitii: Dare no tame ni, nan no tame ni (Tokyo: Yoshikawa kōbunkan, 2007). 6. Alice Tseng, The Imperial Museums of Meiji Japan: Architecture and the Art of the Nation (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2008). See also Tseng’s “Art in Place: The Display of Japan at the Imperial Museums, 1872–1909” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2004). For an earlier introduction in English to Japanese museums, see Masatoshi Konishi, “The Museum and Japanese Studies,” Current Anthropology 28: 4 (August/October 1987). See also the important work by the art historian Christine Guth in, for example, Art, Tea, and Industry: Masuda Takashi and the Mitsui Circle (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993); and Ellen Conant, ed., Challenging Past and Present: The Metamorphosis of Nineteenth-­ Century Japanese Art (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006). For a different approach to some of these issues, see Kim Brandt’s close

analysis of the Japanese folkcraft movement in Kingdom of Beauty: Mingei and the Politics of Folk Art in Imperial Japan (Durham: Duke University Press, 2007). Leslie Pincus provides an intellectual history of imperial-­era aesthetic discourse in Authenticating Culture in Imperial Japan: Kuki Shūzō and the Rise of National Aesthetics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). A current look at the role of the Japanese state in relation to national culture is offered by Kuniyuki Tomooka, Sachiko Kanno, and Mari Kobayashi in “Japanese Cultural Policy and the Influence of Western Institutions,” in Global Culture: Media, Arts, Policy, and Globalization, edited by Diane Crane, Nobuko Kawashima, and Ken’ichi Kawasaki (New York: Routledge, 2002). 7. Attendance figures from “Kanranshasū ichiranhyō,” in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 663. 8. Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, translated by Thomas Burger (Cambridge: mit Press, 1994). 9. Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 40. 10. See, for example, Habermas’s chapters “Political Functions of the Public Sphere” and “The Political Public Sphere and the Transformation of the Liberal Constitutional State into a Social-­ Welfare State” in his The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 57–88, 222–35. Habermas even warns, “The democratic procedures and arrangements that grant united citizens the chance for collective self-­determination and political control over their own social existence can only diminish as the nation-­ state loses its functions and capabilities, unless some equivalent for them emerges at the supra-­ state level.” Habermas, “Toward a Cosmopolitan Europe,” Journal of Democracy 14: 4 (October 2003): 92. 11. Nancy Fraser summarizes and extends various critiques of a Habermasian public sphere, while acknowledging the concept’s analytic uses. Fraser, “Re-­ thinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy,” Social Text 25/26 (1990). 12. Although I will not rehearse here the major debates in the rich and still-­growing Japanese- and English-­language literature on the public sphere and civil society, they have, of course, propelled the very conception of this book in its present form. Habermas’s work, already mentioned, not only has played a foundational role in the Western scholarly debates on this topic but also has been widely referenced in Japanese discussions. Hannah Arendt’s work along these lines, particularly in The Human Condition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), has been equally if not more influential in Japanese circles. See, for example, Saitō Jun’ichi, Kōkyōsei: Publicness (Tokyo: Iwanami, 2000). Saitō uses Arendt’s formulations as a foundation for his consideration of publicness in contemporary Japan. The Public Culture special issue “New Imaginaries” (winter 2002), edited by Dilip Gaonkar and Benjamin Lee, and featuring contributions by Arjun Appadurai, Craig Calhoun, Mary Poovey, Charles Taylor, and Michael Warner, provides a useful introduction to approaches that to a greater
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or lesser degree begin to grapple with publicness as an issue that extends beyond Western Europe. Kuan-­ Hsin Chen takes a hard and critical look at civil society theory and practice within East Asia in his Asia as Method: Toward Deimperialization (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010). 13. Museum studies is a rich and still growing field; I will note here only a few of the works that have informed this study: Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (New York: Routledge, 1995); James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988); Steven Conn, Museums and American Intellectual Life, 1876–1926 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); Carol Duncan, Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums (New York: Routledge, 1995); Shelly Errington, The Death of Authentic Primitive Culture and Other Tales of Progress (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998); Ivan Karp et al., eds., Museum Frictions: Public Cultures/Global Transformations (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Ivan Karp, Christine Mullen Kreamer, and Steven Levine, eds., Museums and Communities (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992); Ivan Karp and Steven Levine, Exhibiting Cultures: The Poetics and Politics of Museum Display (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1991); Jim McGuigan, Culture and the Public Sphere (New York: Routledge, 1996); Daniel Sherman, Worthy Monuments: Art Museums and the Politics of Culture in Nineteenth-­ Century France (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998). 14. For example, Tze Loo offers a sharp historical analysis of the museumification of Shuri Castle in her article, “Shuri Castle’s Other History: Architecture and Empire in Okinawa’s History,” The Asia-­Pacific Journal: Japan Focus (2009), accessed January 21, 2013, http:/ /japanfocus.org/-­tze_ m _-­loo/3232. See also the various chapters that critically examine American and Japanese memory making with regard to the Asia-­Pacific War in Laura Hein and Mark Selden, eds., Living with the Bomb: American and Japanese Cultural Conflicts in the Nuclear Age (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 1997). Also of interest is the proposed but ultimately rejected script for the Smithsonian exhibit of the Enola Gay, published in Philip Nobile, ed., Judgment at the Smithsonian (New York: Marlowe and Co., 1995). Cross-­ cultural comparisons can also be found in Michael J. Hogan, ed., Hiroshima in History and Memory (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1996). I touch on Japanese peace and war museums once more in the epilogue. 15. While the question of whether Habermas’s formulation of the public sphere can be extended to analyze specific developments in Asia is not central to this book, there are a growing number of works that pursue this issue in a nuanced and detailed fashion, such as Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); and Jeong-­ Woo Koo, “The Origins of the Public Sphere and Civil Society: Private Academies and Petitions in Korea, 1506–1800,” Social Science History 31: 3 (fall 2007). 16. Habermas and others have, of course, noted potential problems in the very
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multiplicity of meanings and uses of public and its cognates; Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, 1–2. Michael Edwards provides a succinct discussion of the forms and norms of the public sphere in his Civil Society (Cambridge, U.K.: Polity Press, 2004), 54–71. 17. Publicness as a concept in Japan before 1945 has not constituted a major topic in the English-­language literature, the exceptions being M. E. Berry’s incisive essay “Public Life in Authoritarian Japan,” Daedalus 17: 3 (1998); Douglas Howland’s Translating the West: Language and Political Reason in Nineteenth-­ Century Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2002), and Personal Liberty and the Public Good: The Introduction of John Stuart Mill to Japan and China (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005); and Ikegami’s sweeping Bonds of Civility. In Japan, however, studies of kōkyōsei (today used as a translation for the public sphere) have recently increased exponentially, to the point that they can claim their own shelf or two within various bookstores. The ten-­ volume University of Tokyo series Kōkyō Tetsugaku (Public Philosophy) provides an organizational core to the field by drawing together prominent scholars and publishing their presentations with transcriptions of follow-­up roundtable discussions. See Sasaki Takeshi and Kim Tae-­ Chang, eds., Kōkyō tetsugaku, 10 vols. (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2001–6). Sasaki Takeshi, Yamawaki Naoshi, and Murata Yūjirō, eds., Higashi Ajia ni okeru kōkyōwa no sōshutsu: Kako, genzai, mirai (Tokyo: Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 2003), raise the topic in a comparative framework. “Kōkyōen no hakken,” Gendai shisō 30: 6 (May 2002), and “Kōkyōsei o tō,” Gendai shisō 33: 5 (May 2005), are only two of a number of recent special issues in major journals on publicness. Hirata Oriza examines financial support of the arts in light of publicness in Geijutsu rikkokuron (Tokyo: Shūeisha, 2001). Ono Ryōhei explores public spaces in the late nineteenth century in Kōen no tanjō (Tokyo: Furukawa Kōbunkan, 2003). 18. Irokawa Daikichi, The Culture of the Meiji Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985); and Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), are classic works that examine active engagement in the nineteenth century with new political concepts and practices among both central elites and rural citizens. 19. Conrad Totman provides a close look at Tokugawa tensions embodied in the word kuni and transformation in the Meiji period in “Ethnicity in the Meiji Restoration: An Interpretive Essay,” Monumenta Nipponica 37: 3 (autumn 1982). Takashi Fujitani examines the making of the modern emperor as a focal point for a national communal imaginary in Splendid Monarchy: Power and Pageantry in Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). 20. Kevin Doak provides an incisive overview of the field in “What Is a Nation and Who Belongs? National Narratives and Ethnic Imagination in Twentieth-­ Century Japan,” The American Historical Review 102: 2 (April 1997). Major works published since Doak’s essay include Tessa Morris-­ Suzuki’s Re-­inventing Japan: Time, Space, Nation (New York: M.E. Sharpe, 1998); and Stefan Tanaka’s New
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Times in Modern Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004). Both authors bring fresh attention to temporality as an integral dimension of the modern Japanese nation. 21. See, for example, Bernard S. Silberman, “The Bureaucratic State in Japan: The Problem of Authority and Legitimacy,” in Conflict in Modern Japanese History: the Neglected Tradition, edited by Tetsuo Najita and J. Victor Koschmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982). More recently, he has placed his analysis of the Japanese bureaucracy in a comparative framework. See Silberman, Cages of Reason: The Rise of the Rational State in France, Japan, the United States, and Great Britain (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). E. H. Norman’s classic work was republished in Origins of the Modern Japanese State, edited by John W. Dower (New York: Pantheon, 1975). Ryōsuke Ishii provides an overview of Japanese governing structures in A History of Political Institutions in Japan (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1980). Chalmers Johnson’s miti and the Japanese Miracle: The Growth of Industrial Policy, 1925–1975 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1982), while more focused on the postwar era, has been extremely influential; a further look at the state’s impact and further application is available in Meredith Woo-­ Cumings, ed., The Developmental State (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1999). Muramatsu Michio provides an overview with attention to central-­regional administrative relations in Nihon no gyōsei (Tokyo: Chūō kōron, 1994). A translation of the Charter Oath of 1868 can be found in W. Theodore de Bary, ed., Sources of Japanese Tradition, vol. 2 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), 136. 22. The emperor system has been a key point of Japanese historiographical debate. In English, prominent works range from the early postwar work of Maruyama Masao, available in Thought and Behavior in Modern Japanese Politics, edited by Ivan Morris (London: Oxford University Press, 1963), to more recently Harold Bix’s Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan (New York: Harper Collins, 2000). The influential volumes by Irokawa (The Culture of the Meiji Period), Gluck ( Japan’s Modern Myths), and Fujitani (Splendid Monarchy) have been cited above. 23. Doak, “What Is a Nation and Who Belongs?,” 287. 24. See in particular Howland’s nuanced examination of the impact of translation as a historically situated practice on conceptions of the “people” in Translating the West and Personal Liberty and the Public Good. 25. Fujitani analyzes the Japanese imperial state in light of the Foucauldian concept of biopolitics in “Right to Kill, Right to Make Live: Koreans as Japanese and Japanese as Americans in wwii,” Representations 99 (summer 2007). 26. Works that closely examine conceptions of society (shakai) in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries include H. D. Harootunian, Overcome by Modernity (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000); and Marilyn Ivy, “Formations of Mass Culture,” in Postwar Japan as History, edited by Andrew Gordon (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). In Translating the West,
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Howland devotes a chapter to this topic, “Representing the People, Imagining Society,” 153–82. Germaine Houston focuses on how Marxist theorists and activists in Asia approached the question in The State, Identity, and the National Question in China and Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994). 27. Andrew Gordon’s Labor and Imperial Democracy in Prewar Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) directly confronts the intertwining of nationalism, colonialism, and suffrage in the early twentieth century. Eiji Oguma’s A Genealogy of “Japanese” Self-­ Images, translated by David Askew (Melbourne: Trans-­ Pacific Press, 2002), provides an encyclopedic overview of multiple and often clashing positions in the imperial era. The literature on Japanese colonialism in English has rapidly grown in recent years: an early overview was provided in Ramon Myers and Mark Peattie, eds., The Japanese Colonial Empire, 1895–1945 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984); Stefan Tanaka analyzes the construction of “Shina” (China) in the imperial Japanese academy in Japan’s Orient: Rendering Pasts into History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); Louise Young’s Japan’s Total Empire: Manchuria and the Culture of Japanese Imperialism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999) has led a reassessment of colonialism as a social project; and Peter Duus’s The Abacus and the Sword: The Japanese Penetration of Korea, 1895–1910 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995) and Hyun Ok Park’s Two Dreams in One Bed: Empire, Social Life, and the Origins of the North Korean Revolution in Manchuria (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005) directly engage with the question of capitalism and private property in Japanese colonial expansion to the Asian continent. There is a large literature in Japanese, with Ōe Shinobu et al., eds., Kindai Nihon to shokuminchi, vols. 1–8 (Tokyo: Iwanami, 1992–93), offering a comprehensive introduction. 28. Mizubayashi Takeshi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” in Nihon ni okeru kō to shi, vol. 3, Kōkyō tetsugaku, edited by Sasaki Takeshi and Kim Tae-­ Chang (Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku Shuppankai, 2002). 29. The Chinese binary gong-­ si (public-­ private) initially emerged as a means of differentiating between the concerns (particularly land) of a chief as the head of a community and those of individual members of said community. From the fourth century bce, guan (bureaucracy) and min (the people) began to be deployed within an emerging imperial state apparatus in China to distinguish between state and society. In this context, the term gong bridged the gap between ruler and ruled—incorporated into character compounds for popular opinion as well as government offices—in its sense of “communal matters”; si was that which was not relevant to the community. Gong-­ si and guan-­ min overlapped but were not equivalent, until, in the seventh century ce, imperial officials began to substitute gong-­si for guan-­ min in order to avoid reference to the Tang dynasty’s own min origins. Mizubayashi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” 7–8. Also see Joan Piggot, The Emergence of Japanese Kingship (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), for a detailed discussion of the state-­building project.
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30. Ōyake had previously been complemented by the term woyake, designating a clan possessed of a lower level of status. Since woyake had never demarcated a space outside of governance (that is, both ōyake and woyake referred to ruling structures, distinguishable only in terms of scale), woyake soon faded into irrelevance with the rise of a more totalizing form of imperial hegemony. Mizubayashi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” 6. 31. The law is known as the Konden Einen Shizaihō (墾田永年私財法). Mizubayashi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” 12. 32. A new formal basis for shōen in the eleventh century was established by requiring up-­ to-­ date documentation to enjoy tax-­ free status. Many improperly or undocumented shōen were then converted to “imperial edict fields” (chokushiden), essentially private estates possessed by members of the imperial line. See Thomas Keirstead, The Geography of Power in Medieval Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), for an extended discussion. 33. Mizubayashi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” 13. 34. For the Tokugawa period, Watanabe Hiroshi employs the image of a series of nested boxes, the enclosing one labeled ōyake and the enclosed labeled watakushi; those lower down at any point of the social pyramid under the shogun would refer to matters above their level as ōyake and matters at their own level as watakushi. Meanwhile, superiors drew inferiors into publicness with the appellation of ōyake or kō for affairs subject to regulation in the name of social order, such as marriage alliances within the ruling elite. Watanabe Hiroshi, “Nihon shisōshiteki myakuraku kara mita kō-­ shi mondai,” in Shōrai sedai sōgō kenkyūjo, ed., Hikaku shisōshiteki myakuraku kara mita kō-­shi mondai: Dai ikkai kōkyō tetsugaku kyōdō kenkyūkai (Japan: Shōrai sedai kokusai zaidan, 1998), 121; quoted in Mizubayashi, “Nihon-­ teki ‘kō-­ shi’ kannen no genkei to tenkai,” 19. Watanabe also provides a comparative look at Chinese, Japanese, and English conceptions of publicness in “‘Ōyake’ ‘watakushi’ no gogi,” in Sasaki and Kim, eds., Kō to shi no shisōshi, 145–74. 35. Deep skepticism regarding modern Japanese civil society, let alone Habermasian public sphere, is justifiably engrained in Japanese- and Western-­language studies of modern Japan. See, for example, Sheldon Garon’s Molding Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997); and Gregory Kasza, The Conscription Society: Administered Mass Organizations (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). Saitō Jun’ichi emphasizes that the three-­character-­compound kōkyōsei referring to a Habermasian public sphere only came into common use in Japan in the 1990s. Saitō, Kōkyōsei: Publicness (Tokyo: Iwanami, 2000), 1–2.
1. Stating the Public

Translations of published Japanese texts are mine, except in cases that I note when I have found a published English translation already in circulation. 1. See, for example, Hashizume Shin’ya, Meiji no meikyū toshi (Tokyo: Heibonsha,
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1990); Kinoshita Naoyuki, Bijutsu to iu misemono (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993); Peter Kornicki, “Public Display and Changing Values: Early Meiji Expositions and Their Precursors,” Monumenta Nipponica 49: 2 (summer 1994); Andrew Markus, “The Carnival of Edo: Misemono Spectacles from Contemporary Accounts,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 45:2 (1985); Timon Screech, The Lens within the Heart (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2002). 2. As Douglas Howland points out, “Japanese efforts to translate the West must be understood both as problems of language—the creation and circulation of new concepts—and as problems of action—the usage of new concepts in debates about the policies to be implemented in a westernizing Japan.” Howland, Translating the West: Language and Political Reason in Nineteenth-­ Century Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2002), 2. 3. Kitazawa Noriaki, Me no shinden (Tokyo: Bijutsu shuppansha, 1989), 115. The Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books (Bansho Shirabesho), an expanded and revitalized version of the Tokugawa Shogunate’s translation bureau, was established in 1856 not only to shore up the long-­ standing shogunal monopoly on foreign information but also to train young intellectuals to confront the national crisis precipitated by the arrival of Commodore Matthew Perry in 1853. For more, see Howland, Translating the West, 9–10. 4. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 112–15; Shiina Noritaka, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1989), 17–30. For a detailed English-­language account of the mission of 1860, see Masao Miyoshi, As We Saw Them: The First Japanese Embassy to the West (New York: Kodansha International, 1994). 5. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 112–14; Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 23. 6. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 21–23. 7. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 112. 8. Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (New York: Routledge, 1995), 19. Also see Steven Conn, Museums and American Intellectual Life, 1876–1926 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998); and Daniel Sherman, Worthy Monuments: Art Museums and the Politics of Culture in Nineteenth-­ Century France (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998). 9. This formulation draws from the work of Howland, who engages with Reinhart Koselleck’s theories of language, ideas, and history to explore the complexity of introducing Western philosophical and political concepts to a nineteenth-­ century Japanese context in Translating the West. 10. Both Shiina and Kitazawa analyze Fukuzawa’s definition and its impact. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 117; Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 31–36. Alice Tseng offers a complete translation in “Art in Place: The Display of Japan at the Imperial Museums, 1872–1909” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2004), 25–26. 11. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 29. 12. Reprint of Seiyō jijō in Fukuzawa Yukichi, Fukuzawa Yukichi, in Nihon no meicho: 33, edited by Nagai Michio (Tokyo: Chūō kōron, 1969), 376. 13. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 117.
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14. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 31–35. The Jardin des Plantes is now a department in the French National Museum of Natural History (Muséum national d’histoire naturelle). 15. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 25. 16. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 29–30. 17. Bennett, The Birth of the Museum, 20. 18. I am borrowing the phrase from John Berger’s Ways of Seeing (New York: Viking Press, 1973). 19. Prominent, but not the sole, representatives of this field are Kinoshita, Bijutsu to iu misemono; Kornicki, “Public Display and Changing Values”; Markus, “The Carnival of Edo”; and Screech, The Lens within the Heart. 20. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 116–17; Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 43–47; tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi (Tokyo: Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan, 1973), 2–7. 21. The visits of a handful of Europeans with an interest in Japanese botany during the Tokugawa period are also often mentioned as a stimulating influence. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 3–4. 22. For detailed information on major figures in honzōgaku (medicinal-­plant studies), see Ueno Masuzō, Hakubutsugakusha retsuden (Tokyo: Yasaka shobō, 1991). 23. Hiraga was a scholar and popular writer who studied kokugaku (native studies), rangaku, bussangaku (study of man-­ made and natural products), and honzōgaku. He is well known both for having invented a machine to generate static electricity for therapeutic purposes and for his satirical works of fiction. Unfortunately, he died in jail after going insane and killing one of his students. 24. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 44–45. 25. See, for example, Ueno’s account in Nihon hakubutsugaku-­shi (Tokyo: Kōdansha gakujutsu bunko, 1989), 166–80. 26. Ueno, Hakubutsugakusha retsuden, 53–55. 27. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 5. 28. See Amino Yoshihiko’s classic Muen•kugai•raku for a detailed study of the concept of this spatial expression of Otherness as it developed in the medieval period. Amino also addressed these issues in his work Nihon no rekishi o yominaosu (Tokyo: Chikuma shobō, 1991) and Zoku Nihon no rekishi o yominaosu (Tokyo: Chikuma shobō, 1996) aimed at a more general audience. See also Alan Christy’s translation of the latter two as Rereading Japanese History (Ann Arbor: Center for Japanese Studies, 2012). 29. Amino Yoshihiko, Zoku Nihon no rekishi o yominaosu, 51–55. See also the discussion in Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of Civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 88–90. 30. See, for example, Michael Smitka, ed., The Japanese Economy in the Tokugawa Era, 1600–1868 (New York: Routledge, 1998), particularly the chapters by David Howell, “Proto-­ industrial Origins of Japanese Capitalism,” 112–30, and by NoNotes to Chapter 1
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buhiko Nakai and James L. McClain, “Commercial Change and Urban Growth in Early Modern Japan,” 131–208. For more in-­ depth discussion of the complex economic intersections in the Tokugawa period of local, domainal, and shogunal interests linking protoindustrialization with the emergence of capitalism, see David Howell, Capitalism from Within: Economy, Society, and the State in a Japanese Fishery (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). 31. Kornicki, “Public Display and Changing Values,” 179. 32. M. E. Berry, Japan in Print: Information and Nation in the Early Modern Period (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 231. 33. Berry, Japan in Print, 231. 34. Berry, Japan in Print, 230. 35. Ikegami, Bonds of Civility, 366. 36. Berry, Japan in Print, 211–13. 37. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 48–50. 38. Quoted in Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 48. 39. Michel Foucault, “Governmentality,” in The Essential Foucault, edited by Paul Rabinow and Nikolas Rose (New York: The New Press, 2003), 244. 40. Ueno gives a synopsis of the Meiji government’s steps toward establishing an educational system, which began with taking over the shogunate’s Kaiseijo (formerly the Institute for the Study of Barbarian—then Western—Books) in 1868. Ueno, Hakubutsugakusha retsuden, 154. 41. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 42–47. 42. Tanaka was of samurai background and born in Owari Domain. He was influenced by his father and brother, who were physicians, and studied with Itō Keisuke (1803–1901), an eminent scholar of medicine and rangaku. Tanaka was employed by the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books and helped prepare and oversee the shogunate’s natural-­ history exhibits for the Paris exposition of 1867. After the establishment of the Meiji regime, Tanaka was employed in the university and dispatched to the Vienna exposition of 1873. He was closely involved in the founding of the first permanent government museum and instrumental in opening a government zoo in Ueno Park. He was the second director of the national museum in Ueno, following Machida Hisanari, with whom he had clashed. See the biography provided by Ueno, Hakubutsugakusha retsuden, 151–60. For an account that highlights his conflict with Machida, see Kuresawa Takemi, Bijutsukan no seijigaku (Tokyo: Seikyusha, 2007), 78–81. 43. The proposal from February 1871 is quoted in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 28–29. In the end, credit as the first domestic exposition went to the Kyoto exposition of 1871. See Maruyama Hiroshi, “Meiji shoki no Kyoto Hakurankai,” in Bankoku hakurankai no kenkyū, edited by Yoshida Mitsukuni (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1986). 44. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 22–36. 45. Quoted in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 29. 46. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 32–34.
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47. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, shiryōhen (Tokyo: Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan, 1973), 605. For an illuminating comparison, see the succinct but far-­ reaching account of the turn represented by nineteenth-­ century Western scientific archival philosophy by Geoffrey Bowker in Memory Practices in the Sciences (Cambridge: mit Press, 2005), 71. 48. The process by which the state developed its educational arm was not at all smooth, and the main branch of the university had actually been dismantled in 1870. For more details, see tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 23–24. For the establishment of the Exhibition Bureau, see tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 42–43. 49. Satō Dōshin, “Kindai shigaku to shite no bijutsu shigaku no seiritsu to tenkai,” in Nihon bijutsushi no suimyaku, edited by Tsuji Tadao-­ sensei chireki kinenkai (Tokyo: Perikansha, 1993), 152. 50. Robert Rydell’s landmark studies All the World’s a Fair (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984) and World of Fairs (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993) provide a critical overview of this era, with particular attention to representations of nation, race, and ethnicity. Yoshimi Shunya analyzes Euro-­ American world’s fairs, with a critical discussion of Japanese participation in exposition culture, noting how the twin forces of the state and capital used the fairs to visualize an imperial nation that was disciplinary in nature, in his classic Hakurankai no seijigaku: Manazashi no kindai (Tokyo: Chūō kōronsha, 1992). Official and unofficial records and albums from these expositions abound, including Paris illustré: 1889 exposition universelle (Paris: A. Lahure, 1889); John J. Flinn, Official Guide to the World’s Columbian Exposition in the City of Chicago, State of Illinois, May 1 to October 26, 1893 (Chicago: Columbian Guide Company, 1893); and Plan and Scope of the International Exposition at St. Louis (St. Louis: Louisiana Purchase Exposition, 1903). 51. Last public address of William McKinley at the Pan-­ American Exposition, Buffalo, New York, September 5, 1901, recording by Thomas A. Edison, Inc. Thomas A. Edison, President McKinley’s Speech at the Pan-­ American Exposition, 35 mm paper pos. (New York: Thomas A. Edison, 1901), United States Library of Congress Paper Print Collection (lc 1811). 52. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair, 3. 53. Peter Hoffenberg, An Empire on Display: English, Indian, and Australian Exhibitions from the Crystal Palace to the Great War (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001). 54. Robert Rydell, “A Cultural Frankenstein? The Chicago World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893,” in Grand Illusions: Chicago’s World’s Fair of 1893 , edited by Neil Harris, Wim de Wit, James Gilbert, and Robert Rydell (Chicago: Chicago Historical Society, 1993). 55. Rutherford Alcock had assiduously collected close to nine hundred pieces of lacquerware, pottery, copperware, cloisonné, paintings, armor, swords, lanterns, straw coats, footwear, Japanese clocks, and mechanical dolls. For an account of
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Alcock’s time in Japan, see his The Capital of the Tycoon: A Narrative of a Three Years’ Residence in Japan, vol. 1 (London: Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts, and Green, 1863). 56. Yoshimi, Hakurankai no seijigaku, 112. 57. These were probably the first Japanese women in Europe, and the first on government books in Japan as “employees.” One Western observer wondered at the composure of these women before the throngs of curious onlookers, subjected to requests for the very clothing off their backs. The writer doubts that many European ladies could have held up as well under the pressure of being so displayed. Of course, as high-­class geisha, O-­sumi, O-­Sato, and O-­Kane were accustomed to spending their lives on stage. O-­ sumi was probably the same O-­sumi who accompanied the second Tokugawa mission to the West in 1862 as “companionship” for the thirty-­ eight delegates. As Shibusawa Hanako points out, this is an early example of using national monies to “provide” for government officials, later put in practice on a large scale as the “comfort women” (ianfu) system during the Asia-Pacific War. Shibusawa Hanako, Shibusawa Eiichi, Pari banpaku e (Tokyo: Kabushiki gaisha kokusho kankōkai, 1995), 87–89. See also Yoshida Mitsukuni, ed., Bankokuhaku no Nihonkan (Tokyo: inax, 1990), 11. 58. Ayako Hotta-­ Lister provides a close examination of various aspects, including economic, of Japanese participation in both major and minor overseas exhibitions in The Japan-­ British Exhibition of 1910 (Richmond, U.K.: Japan Library, 1999). 59. See the discussion of this in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 13–18. 60. Machida Hisanari was born in Satsuma Domain to a very prominent samurai household. He went at age nineteen to Edo to study kokugaku (native studies). He was later called back to Satsuma and directed to study English and Western matters. At the young age of twenty-­ six, he was appointed ōmetsuke (high inspector). Machida was sent by his domain in 1865 to London, and in 1867 he was asked to help with the Satsuma presentation in Paris. In 1868 the new government employed Machida in what was to become the Foreign Ministry. In 1870 he was moved from foreign affairs to the university with particular responsibility for the division that represented the legacy of the Institute for the Study of Barbarian Books. From the beginning, Machida promoted the establishment of a permanent museum along the lines of the British and South Kensington (Victoria and Albert) museums, and he headed various incarnations of exposition and museum bureaus. He was also a major private-­art collector and a force in beginning a program for government preservation of antiquities. He worked with Tanaka Yoshio to bring the museum to Ueno Park, but clashed with Tanaka regarding the museum’s direction. Machida was ousted as museum director in 1882 and replaced by Tanaka. Machida soon after departed from government service and took Buddhist vows at a temple on Mount Hiei. Machida figures prominently throughout much of tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakuNotes to Chapter 1
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nenshi ; for initial background information, see pages 18, 24–28, and for his departure, see pages 226–29. Kuresawa also discusses Machida in some detail in Bijutsukan no seijigaku, 75–82. Christine Guth offers a short English-­ language introduction to Machida’s career in Art, Tea, and Industry: Masuda Takashi and the Mitsui Circle (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 106–7. 61. Ueno, Hakubutsugakusha retsuden, 151. 62. Yamataka Nobutsura was born in Shizuoka Domain of samurai background, and was appointed as a shogunal metsuke (inspector). In this capacity, he was sent to the Paris exposition of 1867. Yamataka later joined the Meiji government’s Ministry of Finance, and in 1872 he was appointed to the Exposition Office to help prepare for Vienna. In 1876 he was placed in charge of general affairs (shōmugakari) for the exhibition division, rising to a level of responsibility just below Machida and Tanaka, in charge of the crafts division (kōgei). He became director of the Ueno museum from 1885 to 1889. He later became director of the Kyoto and Nara imperial museums in 1894. In addition, Yamataka was a noted bunjinga (literati style) painter. tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 18, 70, 175, 177, 225, 229–30, 262. For a recent biography, see Shiba Kōshi, Yamataka Nobutsura to sono shinzoku (Yokohama: Shiba Kōshi, 2005). 63. Sano Tsunetami is most widely known for his role in helping establish the Hakuaisha, forerunner to the Japanese Red Cross. He was born in Saga Domain of samurai background, and first went to Edo in 1837, for training in medicine and the sciences. He returned to Saga several times, and in 1857 he got involved in building up a navy. He was dispatched to the Paris exposition of 1867 on the basis of his scientific expertise. In 1870 he was appointed by the Meiji government to help establish a navy but was circulated out due to various conflicts. Sano helped prepare for, and was sent to, the Vienna exposition of 1873. He continued to serve the government, but in the 1880s he also became closely involved with the establishment of the Hakuaisha. In addition, Sano was very active in the art world: he was dispatched on an official survey of European art schools and museums and drafted a report in 1875; he was president of the Ryūchikai and the Nihon bijutsu kyōkai (Japan Art Association); he helped institute a system of creating imperial household appointments and patronage for artists. For a full biography of Sano, see Yoshikawa Ryūko, Nisseki no sōshisha Sano Tsunetami (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Kōbunkan, 2001). Various references to his activities in the art and museum world can be found in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, such as on 19, 115–17, 122–28; and in Ellen Conant, Steven D. Owyoung, and J. Thomas Rimer, eds., nihonga: Transcending the Past; Japanese-­ Style Painting, 1868–1968 (New York: Weatherhill, 1995), 20, 22, 80–81, 92. 64. Ōkuma is so well-­ known that I will not include biographical details here. In English, see Joyce Lebra-­Chapman, Okuma Shigenobu: Statesman of Meiji Japan (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1973). It is also worth noting that both Shibusawa Eiichi (1840–1931), traveling as an advisor to Tokugawa
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Akitake and about to found a financial empire, and the future textile magnate Godai Tomoatsu (1835–85), who managed the Satsuma displays, would return to Japan stressing the importance of adopting the corporation form of business organization. Nakaoka Tetsurō, Hakurankai (Tokyo: Asahi shimbunsha, 2005), 195–96. 65. For a close analysis of the problem of recruitment and continuity in the Meiji bureaucracy, see Bernard S. Silberman, “Bureaucratization of the Meiji State: The Problem of Authority and Legitimacy,” in Conflict in Modern Japanese History: The Neglected Tradition, edited by Tetsuo Najita and J. Victor Koschmann (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1982), 421–30. 66. Rydell, All the World’s a Fair, 55–56; see also Timothy Mitchell, “Egypt at the Exhibition,” in Colonising Egypt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 1–33; and Hoffenberg, “Terrae Nullius? Australia and India at Overseas Exhibitions,” in An Empire on Display, 129–65. 67. For a stimulating account of Mexico’s struggles for recognition at international expositions, see Mauricio Tenorio-­ Trillo, Mexico at the World’s Fairs: Crafting a Modern Nation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996). 68. Russell Lewis, “Preface,” in Harris et al., Grand Illusions, xii. 69. Lewis, “Preface,” xii. 70. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 136. 71. James W. Buel, ed., Louisiana and the Fair: An Exposition of the World, Its People, and Their Achievements, vol. 4 (St. Louis: World’s Progress Publication Company, 1904), 1399–400. 72. See tkh, Seiki no saiten: Bankoku hakurankai no bijutsu (Tokyo: Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan, 2004); tkh, Umi o watatta Meiji no bijutsu: Saiken! 1893-­ nen Shikago Koronbusu sekai hakurankai (Tokyo: Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutuskan, 1997); and Tokyo-­ to Edo-­ Tokyo Hakubutsukan, Hakuran toshi Edo Tokyo (Tokyo: Edo Tokyo Rekishi Zaidan, 1993). Reproductions of period materials related to expositions in the late nineteenth century can also be found in Tsunoyama Yukihiro, ed., Uiin banpaku no kenkyū (shiryōhen) (Tokyo: Dōbōsha, 2000). Hino Eiichi notes that Arita tokkuri (servers for Japanese wine) were a hit at the exposition in 1867, but they were used for lamp stands rather than for their original purpose. Hino, “Bankoku hakurankai to Nihon no ‘bijutsu kōgei,’” in Bankoku hakurankai no kenkyū, edited by Yoshida Mitsukuni (Kyoto: Shibunkaku, 1986), 22. 73. Tokyo-­to Edo-­Tokyo Hakubutsukan, Hakuran toshi Edo Tokyo, 56. Léon Roches (1809–1901), French envoy to Japan from 1864 to 1868, promoted trade between France and Japan. Toward this end, he contributed to the construction of factories and similar projects. 74. Wagener, a German chemist who arrived in Tokyo in 1868, greatly contributed to developments in the fields of chemistry and craft production in Japan. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 136; Hino, “Bankoku hakurankai to Nihon no ‘bijutsu kōgei,’” 23.
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75. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 136–37. 76. Nakaoka, Hakurankai, 200–205. 77. Satō Dōshin, “Rekishi shiryō to shite no korekushon,” in Kindai Gasetsu 2 (Tokyo: Meiji bijutsu gakkai, 1993), 44. 78. For further accounts of Japonisme, see Kodama Sanehide, Amerika no japonizumu (Tokyo: Chūō kōronsha, 1995); Kokuritsu seiyō bijutsukan, ed., Japonizumu ten zuroku (Tokyo: Kokuritsu seiyō bijutsukan, Kokusai kōryū kikin, Nihon hōsō kyōkai, Yomiuri shimbun, 1988); and Salem Peabody and Essex Museum, ed., A Pleasing Novelty: Bunkio Matsuo and the Japan Craze in Victorian Salem (Salem, Mass.: Peabody and Essex Museum, 1993). 79. Hino, “Bankoku hakurankai to Nihon no ‘bijutsu kōgei,’” 24. 80. The call was circulated for the domestic exposition of 1872 that was intended to prepare for the world’s fair in 1873. Hakurankai jimukyoku, “Uinfu (Ōchiri no miyako) ni oite rai-­1873-­nen hakurankai o moyōsu shidai” (1872), quoted by Hino, “Bankoku hakurankai to Nihon no ‘bijutsu kōgei,’” 24. 81. For visual illustration of such tendencies, see the official catalogue for the Tokyo National Museum’s exhibit from 1997, tkh, Umi o watatta Meiji no bijutsu: Saiken! 1893-­ nen Shikago-­ Koronbusu Sekai Hakurankai. This trend is explicitly analyzed on pages 93–94. 82. Pierre Lehmann also notes the strong resistance on the part of many in or from the West to non-­ Westerners refusing the role of the Other. Thus the unkind comments about Japanese in Western dress appearing as monkeys. Lehmann, The Image of Japan: From Feudal Isolation to World Power, 1850–1905 (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1978). 83. Kinoshita, Bijutsu to iu misemono, 16–34; see also Nakamura Denzaburō, “Meiji Sculpture,” in Japanese Arts and Crafts in the Meiji Era, edited by Uyeno Naoteru (Tokyo: Pan-­ Pacific Press, 1958). 84. For a detailed account of the tumultuous fate of Buddhism during the Meiji period, see James Ketelaar, Of Heretics and Martyrs: Buddhism and Its Persecution in Meiji Japan (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990). 85. Kinoshita, Bijutsu to iu misemono, 29–31. 86. Kinoshita, Bijutsu to iu misemono, 30. 87. For Takamura Kōun’s own recollection on the making of this statue, see Takamura, Bakumatsu ishin kaikodan (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1995), 372–77. 88. See Hino’s discussion of the classification of Japanese works as art in 1893, “Bankoku hakurankai to Nihon no ‘bijutsu kōgei,’” 31–33, and in 1900, 34–38. 89. Yoshida, Bankokuhaku no Nihonkan, 22. 90. Umesao Tadao, “Chi” no korekutaatachi (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 1989), 237–38. 91. For a critical overview, see Yoshimi, Hakurankai no seijigaku, 122–44. For reproductions of primary materials related to domestic expositions, see the invaluable series published by the Meiji Bunken Shiryō Kankōkai, Meiji zenki sangyō hattatsu shi shiryō, 110 vols. (Tokyo: Meiji bunken shiryō kankōkai, 1973). 92. Satō describes the relationship as a “two-­ tiered transformer” for the economy
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in “Meiji no shokusan kōgyō seisaku to Ōbei no Nihon bijutsu korekushon,” a report presented as a member of the Tokyo Kokuritsu Bunkazai research group (unpublished, date unknown), 4. 93. The Cultural Bureau (Bunkachō) explicitly models categories, in particular with regard to the case of Japanese art. See Bunkachō, ed., Wagakuni no bunka to bunka gyōsei (Tokyo: Kabushiki gaisha gyōsei, 1988), 103–31. 94. Detailed accounts are offered by Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 54–71; and tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 49–60. 95. Currency denominations followed the New Currency Act of 1871, which established the yen, sen, and ri. The transitional form of ryō, equivalent to yen, was also still employed at the time. One yen equals one hundred sen, and one sen equals ten ri. At the time, one shō (1.8 liters) of rice cost about 42 sen. 96. Proposal quoted in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 49–50. 97. Proposal from 1872, quoted in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 49. 98. Quoted in tkh, Tokyo Kokuritsu Hakubutsukan hyakunenshi, 49. 99. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 124. 100. Yoshimi, Hakurankai no seijigaku, 122–23. 101. Rudyard Kipling, From Sea to Sea: Letters of Travel, vol. 1 (New York: Doubleday & McClure Company, 1899), 331. 102. Kitazawa, Me no shinden, 119. 103. Stephen Vlastos, “Opposition Movements in Early Meiji, 1868–1885,” in The Cambridge History of Japan, Vol. 5: The Nineteenth Century, edited by Marius B. Jansen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 398. 104. Satō, “Meiji no shokusan kōgyō seisaku to ōbei no nihon bijutsu korekushon,” 5. 105. Hakurankai annai: Daigokai naikoku kangyō hakurankai sōsetsu (Tokyo: Kinkōdō, 1903), 1. In everything from conception to timing, domestic expositions were seen by the government as integrally connected to Japanese participation in world’s fairs. See, for example, Hakurankai annai, 2–3. 106. Information on the evolution of the national expositions is from Hakurankai annai, 2–7. See also Noriko Aso, “New Illusions: The Emergence of a Discourse on Traditional Japanese Arts and Crafts, 1868–1945” (PhD diss., University of Chicago, 1997); and Yoshimi, Hakurankai no seijigaku. 107. Hakurankai annai, frontispiece map. 108. Buel, Louisiana and the Fair, vol. 5, 1692. 109. Daigokai naikoku kangyō hakurankai kinen shashinchō offered a particularly rich visual record of the exposition (Osaka: Gyokumeikwan, 1903). 110. See Neil Harris, “Memory and the White City,” and Wim de Wit, “Building an Illusion: The Design of the World’s Columbian Exposition,” in Harris et al., Grand Illusions. 111. The seven-­ volume series Daigokai naikoku kangyō hakurankai kinen shashinchō provides a rich set of images of various aspects of the exposition. See, for example, plate 2 of the Bazaar of Nagoya (Nagoya-­ kan; English translation as
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given in the original), and plates 7–8 of the Formosa Building (Taiwan-­ kan) in vol. 1, 13–14, 19. See also plate 7 of the Bazaar of Osaka in vol. 3, 41; and plate 11 for the Bazaar of Kyoto in vol. 4, 10. 112. Stefan Tanaka, Japan’s Orient: Rendering Pasts into History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 19. 113. Hakurankai annai, 95. 114. Hakurankai annai, 96. 115. Hakurankai annai, 95. 116. Hakurankai annai, 95–97. 117. See Hakurankai annai, 63. 118. Matsuda Kyōko, Teikoku no shisen: Hakurankai to ibunka hyōshō (Tokyo: Furukawa kōbunkan, 2003), 76–77. 119. Hakurankai annai, 63. 120. Hakurankai annai, 98. 121. Matsuda, Teikoku no shisen, 82–118. 122. Hakurankai annai, 63, 97–99. 123. For a discussion of conceptualizing a nation as a “collective actor,” see Craig Calhoun, Nations Matter: Culture, History, and the Cosmopolitan Dream (London: Routledge, 2007), 48. 124. Accounts of this pavilion may be found in Arazato Kinbuku, Ōshiro Tatsuhiro, and the Ryūkyū shinpōsha, Okinawa no hyakunen, vol. 2 (Tokyo: Taihei, 1971), 198–200; Murata Yūjirō, “Chinese Nationalism and Modern Japan: Imitation and Resistance in the Formation of National Subjects,” in Japanese Civilization in the Modern World XVI: Nation, State, Empire, edited by T. Umesao, T. Fujitani, and E. Kurimoto, and translated by Noriko Aso (Osaka: Japanese National Museum of Ethnology, 2000); and Ōta Masahide, Okinawa no minshū ishiki (Tokyo: Shinsensha, 1987), 289–95. 125. Murata, “Chinese Nationalism and Modern Japan: Imitation and Resistance in the Formation of National Subjects,” 39, footnote 9. 126. Hoffenberg, An Empire on Display, 97. 127. Hoffenberg, An Empire on Display, 236. 128. Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 60–65. 129. Quoted by Shiina, Meiji hakubutsukan kotohajime, 60–61. 130. Fujiwara Masato, ed., Meiji zenki sangyō hattatsu shi shiryō, kangyō hakurankai shiryō 6: Daigokai naikoku kangyō hakurankai Tokyo shuppin renmeikai hōkoku (Tokyo: Meiji bunken shiryō kankōkai, 1973), 63–64. See also Hakurankai annai, 167–71. 131. Fujiwara, Meiji zenki sangyō hattatsu shi shiryō, kangyō hakurankai shiryō 6, 64–67. 132. Hakurankai annai, frontispiece map. 133. Bennett, The Birth of the Museum, 69–75. 134. In the Tokugawa and early Meiji periods, rest days were configured in a different manner, but from the 1870s on, the idea of designating at least a portion of
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