A Basketmaker in Rural Japan
By Fred Camper
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The viewer can only guess, from the exhibition’s instructional materials, at the full significance of these objects. We learn from the catalog and a video on view that Hiroshima almost always knew the people he designed baskets for and tried to make objects that would please them, fit their bodies, and please himself as well. On the video he offers an appreciative buyer his choice of two baskets, since the artist wasn’t sure which would suit his customer best. In the catalog, Hiroshima calls basket making “a form of prayer.” On the video he tells us the “true meaning of the craftsman’s work”: it forges a connection “between the hearts of the person who made it and the person who uses it.” I’ve interviewed a lot of artists, some of whom have spoken eloquently about the connections they seek with their viewers; none has said anything quite like this.
Only after World War II did Hiroshima settle in a studio and let his customers come to him. Over the years, contact with other basket makers and their works allowed him to learn new designs and improve his craft. Youths were apprenticed to him, but no one had the patience or skill to stick it out. And by the 60s, when cheap plastic knockoffs–a few of which are included in the show for contrast–became accessible, demand for Hiroshima’s products began to fall. He kept working, however, and gradually demand by collectors increased. The works in the present show were all commissioned by a researcher who wished to create a record of Hiroshima’s craft.
Other artists also include a bit of social commentary, though sometimes the work is so playful it doesn’t make a clear or singular point. Beth Reisman in Four of Hearts places red hearts over black-and-white help-wanted ads for accountants, suggesting some sort of opposition between the business world and the world of the heart. For King of Diamonds, Margaret Wharton juxtaposes Burger King logos with Diamond Matches box covers–representing the king and the diamond in two common products, illustrating how the most basic elements of our language have been appropriated by commerce.
