Artwork or Artifact? The Calligraphy Controversy in Modern Japan
How the contention of whether calligraphy could be categorized as fine art represented a larger question of aesthetic qualification in the Meiji Period.
Japanese calligraphy, or shodo, is not merely writing. It is a delicate interplay of rhythm, form, and the balance between ink and emptiness. And yet, at a pivotal moment in history, a pressing question divided artists and scholars alike: was calligraphy truly an artwork, or merely an obsolete artifact?
In the early Meiji era (1868–1912), as Japan increased diplomatic exchanges and modernized in the wake of the Tokugawa shogunate’s collapse, Western influence flooded the country, reshaping everything from the cut of a sleeve to the contours of national identity. Ideas from Europe and North America transformed fashions, food, institutions, and ideologies.
Amid this atmosphere of reform and cultural reassessment, a curious debate emerged: could shodo, the traditional Japanese “way of writing,” be recognized as art under newly imported European definitions of “fine art”? Framed by the phrase “Calligraphy is Not Art,” the controversy soon evolved beyond aesthetics into a symbolic struggle between modernity and tradition, between imported frameworks and indigenous forms.
The History of Shodo Calligraphy
Calligraphy traces its origins to ancient China, where early scripts such as oracle bones and bronze inscriptions laid the foundation for Chinese characters. It entered Japan around the 5th century, primarily through the transcription of Buddhist sutras. In its early use, writing was a sacred act, tied closely to religious devotion and the preservation of spiritual teachings. But as Japan’s cultural and political landscape evolved, so did the function of writing. By the Heian period (794–1185)—widely regarded as the golden age of classical Japanese culture—calligraphy had moved beyond the temple and into the heart of the imperial court.
This era, marked by the political dominance of the aristocratic Fujiwara family and a long stretch of peace and stability, allowed the arts to flourish in unprecedented ways. The imperial court in present-day Kyoto became the center of a highly refined aristocratic culture, and within it emerged wayo, a distinctly Japanese calligraphic style that softened the angular forms of Chinese script to suit the court’s delicate sensibilities.
Closely tied to waka poetry, the elegant 31-syllable verse form that served as both artistic expression and social exchange, calligraphy was valued not only for its content but also for the grace of its execution. Whether inscribed at poetry gatherings or exchanged in love letters, the written line became a measure of intellect, emotional insight, and elegance—a form of expression that defined the courtly ideal.
As the Heian period came to a close in the late 12th century, the elegant world of the imperial court gave way to centuries of political upheaval and warfare. The rise of the warrior class shifted cultural authority away from the aristocracy and toward the military elite. During these turbulent medieval centuries, calligraphy remained respected—particularly among Zen monks and the upper samurai class—but it no longer held the central, courtly role it had in Heian times.
It was not until the Edo period (1603–1868), under the final Tokugawa shogunate, that Japan once again experienced a long and stable era, where the arts flourished anew, and calligraphy found a different kind of home. No longer confined to temples or elite circles, shodo, or the "way of writing," became woven into daily life across social classes.
One of the most visible signs of this shift was the widespread tradition of displaying calligraphy in the tokonoma, a recessed alcove in Japanese homes reserved for seasonal scrolls, flower arrangements, or treasured objects, not just as decoration, but as a statement of taste, education, and moral sentiment.
During this era, the Oie-ryu script was formalized for official documents and administration. This standardization, taught widely in terakoya (temple schools), which educated children all across the country, made literacy and calligraphy more accessible than ever. As a result, illustrated books like aohon, akahon, and kurohon grew popular, blending ukiyo-e imagery with calligraphic storytelling, blurring the line between visual art and vernacular literature for an expanding readership.
What began as a sacred act tied to Buddhist devotion, and later flourished as an emblem of aristocratic grace, had by the Edo period become a vital thread running through the fabric of everyday Japanese life, linking generations through the enduring artistry of the brush.
Scrutiny of Shodo Under Modern Aesthetics
When the Tokugawa shogunate collapsed in 1868 after more than 260 years of rule, Japan entered the Meiji era with a singular goal: to remake itself as a modern nation, equal in power and prestige to the West. At the heart of this national transformation was the desire to revise the “unequal treaties”—foreign agreements signed during the late Edo period that granted Western powers extraterritorial rights and economic advantages in Japan. To gain respect on the world stage, Meiji leaders pursued an ambitious program of modernization, one that extended far beyond technology and industry.
Figures like Foreign Minister Inoue Kaoru championed oka, or “Europeanization,” believing that Japan’s political and cultural legitimacy depended on proving its capacity to assimilate Western norms. Western-style clothing replaced traditional dress among officials and elites, beef—once shunned for religious reasons—became part of the national diet, and European architecture rose in new urban centers like Ginza and Yokohama. These visible shifts signaled Japan’s readiness to join the ranks of “civilized” nations. But beneath the surface lay a more complex cultural reckoning: how could Japan modernize without erasing the very traditions that made it unique?
Nowhere was this tension more pronounced than in the realm of art. For centuries, Japanese practices such as ink painting, ukiyo-e, calligraphy, poetry, and lacquerware were not seen as separate aesthetic disciplines, but as integrated aspects of daily life, spirituality, or social customs. When these traditions were introduced abroad, however, they were recontextualized as national representations of “art.” Yet, because they lacked oil painting, linear perspective, or monumental sculpture—the hallmarks of European “high art”—they were often dismissed as merely decorative or artisanal. Thinkers like Inoue worried that this incomplete portrayal of Japan’s artistic heritage risked reinforcing Western perceptions of the nation as uncivilized or incapable of producing true fine art.
In response, Japanese intellectuals and officials sought to bridge this cultural gap by adopting Western frameworks. Recognizing that artistic production could play a vital role in enhancing the nation's reputation and prestige, as well as redressing the trade imbalance caused by modernization, the government carefully selected artists, objects, and products to represent Japan at international exhibitions in Vienna (1873), Philadelphia (1876), Paris (1878, 1889, and 1900), and Chicago (1893). These exhibitions showcased Japanese art in ways that could be smoothly interpreted and accepted by Western viewers.
It was during preparations for the 1873 Vienna World's Fair that the term bijutsu, meaning "fine arts," was officially introduced to categorize Japanese art in terms familiar to Western audiences. Soon after, bigaku, or "aesthetics," entered scholarly vocabulary, aligning Japanese theories of beauty with European philosophical traditions. Institutions followed this new logic: bijutsukan, or "art museum," was first used in 1877 during Tokyo's First National Industrial Exhibition, where artworks were curated in Western-style galleries modeled after European museums.
But these borrowed terms did more than translate—they transformed. By redefining traditional Japanese arts through a Western vocabulary, the nation began to reassess its own cultural values through a foreign lens. Concepts rooted in European art history became new benchmarks of artistic merit, and practices that had once emphasized harmony with nature or spiritual refinement now had to contend with criteria focused on individual genius and visual impact.
It was within this moment of cultural friction and redefinition that a bold new voice emerged. In 1901, a 25-year-old artist and critic named Koyama Shotaro (1857-1916) published a provocative essay in the journal Toyo Gakugei Zasshi titled “Sho wa bijutsu narasu”, translated as “Calligraphy is Not Art”. In it, he launched a systematic critique of calligraphy’s place within the modern bijutsu framework. According to Koyama, shodo—despite its deep cultural roots—failed to meet the standards of Western-style fine art as defined by originality, self-expression, and form. His argument—summarized in six key points below—ignited a fierce debate that echoed throughout Japan’s art world.
The Six Points of Koyama’s Argument
1. Calligraphy Is Merely a Language Symbol
At its core, Koyama argued, calligraphy is a symbolic system—its primary function is to transmit meaning through written language. While East Asian calligraphy may differ in visual structure from Western scripts (for instance, vertical versus horizontal orientation), its communicative role remains the same. For Koyama, since calligraphy was not considered art abroad, this utilitarian essence of shodo disqualified it from being considered art in Japan.
2. Aesthetic Appeal Alone Does Not Constitute Art
Secondly, Koyama dismissed the notion that beauty alone could elevate calligraphy into the realm of fine art. “Everything in the universe,” he wrote, “possesses aesthetic elements.” The presence of visual harmony or elegance, while appealing, was not sufficient to merit classification as fine art.
3. Appreciation Is Often Misplaced
Thirdly, Koyama questioned the nature of admiration for calligraphy. In many cases, he claimed, what viewers praised had little to do with the brushwork itself. Instead, they were responding to external factors: the meaning of the text, the renown of the calligrapher, the work’s historical significance, or its cultural associations. These, Koyama argued, obscured a lack of genuine aesthetic engagement with the visual form.
4. Calligraphy Serves as Functional Decoration, Not Art
Fourthly, although calligraphy might adorn homes, temples, and ceremonial spaces, Koyama argued that its decorative function did not equate to artistic value. Unlike Western paintings, which he believed were created to evoke emotion or provoke contemplation, calligraphy, in his view, functioned primarily as ornament—culturally significant, yet aesthetically secondary.
5. Calligraphy and Painting Are Not Equals
Fifthly, while calligraphy and painting frequently appeared together—most notably in poetic inscriptions on painted scrolls—Koyama argued that this coexistence did not imply equal artistic standing. Their combination, he maintained, was collaborative rather than evidence of parity, with painting occupying the primary aesthetic role.
6. Calligraphy Does Not Truly Move the Heart
Finally, Koyama challenged the emotional power of calligraphy. When viewers were moved, he suggested, it was the content of the words—not the style in which they were rendered—that stirred emotion. A clumsily executed phrase could still inspire if its message was profound, whereas even the most graceful brushwork, if paired with trivial or meaningless content, failed to resonate.
Such were Koyama’s reasons for declaring that “calligraphy is not art.” His critique reflected a broader unease with traditional Japanese forms that did not align with imported definitions of bijutsu. This discomfort was not limited to international exhibitions; even within Japan, painting styles that emphasized decorative or narrative elements, such as yamato-e or ukiyo-e, were frequently considered inferior to oil painting, which had become the new gold standard of civilized art. Koyama’s attack on calligraphy stirred restless hearts at a time when Japan was renegotiating its cultural identity—balancing centuries of tradition with the pressing demand to modernize, reclassify, and align with Western standards of artistic legitimacy.
Defending the Conception of Shodo as Art
In response to Koyama’s pointed critique, art theorist and cultural figure Tenshin Okakura (1863-1913) offered a compelling rebuttal—one that fundamentally shifted the terms of the debate. For Tenshin, the real question was not whether calligraphy could meet the criteria of Western fine art, but whether those very criteria were capacious enough to encompass the distinctive aesthetics of Japanese expression.
While acknowledging calligraphy’s communicative function, Tenshin emphasized that shodo transcends mere legibility. True calligraphy, he argued, is a cultivated spiritual discipline where rhythm, breath, and balance converge in the moment of inscription. It is not only about what is written, but how—it is a choreography of ink and gesture, an embodiment of the artist’s awareness.
To Koyama’s claim that calligraphy’s value depends solely on public esteem, Tenshin countered that all art acquires meaning through shared cultural reception. Singling out shodo as unworthy of aesthetic consideration, he argued, imposed an arbitrary and ethnocentric hierarchy. More crucially, he rejected the idea that calligraphy stirs the viewer only through semantic content. Just as a painting can move us by its form rather than its subject, so too can the visual and kinetic force of calligraphy evoke emotion. The curve of a stroke, the pause between lines, the tension between pressure and release—all these offer their own expressive language, independent of textual meaning.
For Tenshin and other defenders of shodo, the brushstroke was not merely a tool but a gesture—performance of cultivated sensibility refined over generations. It embodied philosophical principles like ma, the beauty of negative space, and mono no aware, the subtle pathos of transient beauty. These were not “fine art” in the European academic sense, but expressions of a worldview in which beauty is intimately tied to ephemerality, restraint, and introspection. In this light, calligraphy was not outside the realm of fine arts—it offered a way to expand it.
Tenshin’s argument opened a broader conversation about the limits of Western aesthetic frameworks and the distinct sensibilities of Japanese art. It set a precedent for discussions on aesthetics like the quiet elegance of wabi-sabi—a reverence for imperfection, impermanence, and restraint—which stood in stark contrast to Western ideals of symmetry, permanence, and expressive clarity. Later thinkers like D.T. Suzuki, who introduced Zen aesthetics to the West, also echoed Tenshin’s view, noting that various aesthetic sensibilities resist direct translation and are best conveyed through the mood or presence of a work. These perspectives prompted a renewed appreciation among Japanese art critics for long-valued ideas like kiin seido—a spirited resonance found in artworks that transcends form or technique.
In defending calligraphy, Tenshin was not merely preserving a cultural artifact—he was redefining what it means to call something "art." His vision offered a powerful counterpoint to imported aesthetic hierarchies, insisting that Japan’s artistic legacy could not be measured solely by existing Western metrics. Instead, it demanded a broader, more inclusive understanding of beauty—one that makes space for the breath of a brushstroke, the quiet pulse of ink, and the presence of spirit on the page.
The Legacy of the Controversy
The debate between Koyama Shotaro and Okakura Tenshin was more than a clash of opinions—it exposed a foundational rift in defining what “fine art” could or should be in modern Japan. While Koyama aligned with Western norms, Tenshin, by contrast, advocated for a broader, culturally grounded conception of art—one that could embrace traditional Japanese forms such as calligraphy, ink painting, ceramics, and textiles not as relics or crafts, but as serious expressions of aesthetic thought.
Tenshin’s view resonated with a larger movement in the Meiji period, led in part by the American orientalist and educator Ernest Francisco Fenollosa (1853-1908), to build a modern Japanese art world that could assert itself globally while remaining rooted in indigenous values: through this view, calligraphy, once primarily valued for its moral and spiritual dimensions, began to be reframed as a fine art worthy of exhibition and scholarly attention. Similarly, ink painters such as Yokoyama Taikan (1868-1958), whom Tenshin mentored, emerged at the forefront of nihonga, a new school of Japanese painting that combined native traditions with modern methods learned from yoga, or “Western-style paintings.”. The tension between preservation and modernization also gave rise to the Shin-hanga movement in the early 20th century—a revival of traditional woodblock printmaking that emerged amid Japan’s industrial transformation.
The Meiji-era question—Is calligraphy art?—may seem settled today, yet its echoes persist. In an age of machine-generated images and algorithmic mimicry, we too grapple with questions of artistic authorship: Where do we draw the line between imitation and expression, between function and form, between visual pleasure and emotional depth? Even more narrowly, we face a similar dilemma in how we engage with written language itself. In a world where most words now arrive through keyboards and screens, how might we remain attuned to what shodo offers—to the way it communicates not just through meaning, but through motion, rhythm, and breath?
Perhaps the answer lies not in resolution, but in return: return to the stroke, to the silence between lines, to the human hand reaching beyond instant relays of information. To pick up the brush—even once—is to listen again. To rediscover the expressive power of form. And to let the ink remind us that not all writing is meant to be read. Some is meant to be felt.
About the Author: Tamaki Hoshi is a scholar and aspiring novelist with a passion for both Japanese women's history and intellectual history. She is currently researching the effects of modernization on Japanese women and the collective memory of motherhood in prewar and wartime Japan at Waseda University. Through her research and writing, she strives to illuminate the untold stories of women in Japanese history.
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