Life Carving
Yamato sat down on the floor and crossed his legs under the table. He pulled the table closer so that his legs were all the way underneath and set the flat rectangular block of wood on the table.
The table was about chest-height when he was sitting—a comfortable height for carving so that his back would not hurt—and featured a slight incline to enable the carver to sit for the hours and hours it took to carve a woodblock print.
He switched on the lamp. It clicked loudly in the room that was otherwise silent except for the occasional sound of traffic outside.
Then he unrolled the leather pouch which held his carving tools.
The walls of the little room featured several prints: landscapes of various seasons, animal prints with birds, turtles, and fish, bijin-ga featuring Japanese women in traditional dress. He loved the images but their familiarity from years of occupancy and the room’s simple paper shoji screen door and beige carpet made it easy to direct his attention to the block of cherry wood on the table and the task at hand.
The grain fell in gently waving lines down the block, the color a chestnut and tan and honey brown. The block was about to become the key block for this print, that is, the block with the primary linework for the image.
He took the brush from the jar of weak glue on the floor and spread the glue across the surface of the block. The smell of the glue always reminded him of his children doing art projects at the kitchen table when they were young, spilling more glue than they got on the paper and arguing over who got which pencil.
He felt the little brush grab and pull at the surface as it spread the thin glue across the smooth-sanded grain of the wood.
Once covered with glue, Yamato lifted the sheet of gampi paper from the other side of him. On the translucent paper, a turtle broke the surface of the pond at the same time as sakura blossoms fell beside it, both sending ripples across the water.
Yamato carefully set the image face-down on the wood block and pressed every square inch of the paper to ensure it was properly set with no bubbles
First he gouged the registration marks for the bottom-left corner—digging out an L-shaped area—and the bottom edge—simply sinking a straight line into the wood at the bottom of the image—which would allow him to keep the images properly aligned when printing.
Then he waited to let the glue dry. If he tried to move on to the next step now he risked shifting the paper and having to start all over again with a new print on a new piece of gampi.
The sound of water boiling soon emanated from the electric kettle in the corner and the water immediately started to turn a light shade of green when the teabag hit the surface.
Yamato adjusted the hat on his bald head and sipped gratefully at the tea which helped to ward off the winter day outside, which the little window showed was rapidly turning to night.
The tea steamed on the floor next to him as Yamato set the sharpening stone on the table’s edge, selected his carving knife with the already dull blade he had replaced only a few days before, dipped a finger in the tea and let it drop on the surface of the stone, and set the edge of the blade on the stone.
He worked the blade Back and forth in short strokes before turning it over until he achieved a wickedly sharp edge which he tested against his thumbnail.
He was sure that enough time had passed for the glue to dry and having replaced the now-sharpened knife in his tool pouch he turned to the block of cherry once more and the thin translucent paper which now hid the image beneath.
Applying gentle pressure with just his middle finger he rubbed in circles until the paper peeled away under his finger tip rolling into thin tendrils that he would sweep to the floor. As he rubbed the paper, bit by bit it was worn away revealing at first just a few black lines, then more and more of the image underneath. The turtle’s head and back, the ripples on the surface of the water, one sakura blossom, then another, each with five symmetrical petals, the five petals forming a symmetrical whole flower and a perfect five-pointed star in the center.
Nothing was created by this step, just revealed, but it gave Yamato a distinct sense of satisfaction seeing the image on the wood, the image which he would coax from the surface of the wood to tell a simple story but which would be different for each person who saw it.
He studied the image, a Hokusai print he’d seen hundreds of times, for a time, making sure to get the feel of it, to understand the weight of the lines.
As he stared the ripples twisted and warped, one after another emanating from where the turtle’s head was breaking the surface of the water. The sakura blossoms, stationary before, twirled down to the water and settled one after the other, rocking almost imperceptibly in the ripples made by the turtle.
The turtle kicked once, twice, then lifted his head up and cocked an eye at Yamato, as if to say ‘How about this?’
“Now where are you going?” Yamato said.
The turtle shifted, kicking out one leg and extending its neck. The ripples changed, the cherry blossoms swirled.
“No,” Yamato said. “You know that won’t do, my friend.”
“Why not?” the turtle said.
Yamato froze.
The crane he had carved the day before had talked to him. When that happened, he had gone to bed immediately, blaming exhaustion and lack of sleep for the apparent hallucination.
“Did you say something?”
“Yes, I said, why not?”
“Are you real?”
“Define real.”
“Am I imagining this?”
“Would your imagination say ‘yes’?”
Yamato thought about that. “I don’t know.”
“Me neither,” said the turtle. “Let’s just assume I’m real. I think I am, anyway. So why not change the picture?”
“Well,” Yamato said, attempting to ignore the absurdity of having a conversation with one of his carvings, “I’m just a carver. Hokusai was the artist. It’s my job to translate assiduously, perfectly his creation, his image from the paper to the wood.”
“But don’t you think I look better like this? See? The colors of my shell would come through better this way in the final printing. And the cherry blossoms—there are only a few. What if we scattered more like this?”
A dozen more sakura blossoms appeared on the block, twisting up and away from the turtle in a swirling pattern.
Yamato shook his head. “That’s not what Hokusai drew.”
“So what?” the turtle said. “You don’t have to be a slave to what’s on the print, to what every carver has done before. Why not strike out on your own?”
“Then I’d be an artist, a designer of prints, and I’m not. Maybe I could make my own, but I can’t change Hokusai’s design or allow Hokusai’s design to change itself, Mr. Turtle.”
“Why can’t you have a little imagination? Be bold, be daring. Try something new.”
Yamato sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them on the front of his sweater, then replaced them.
“Listen, turtle. I’m going to tell you the same thing I told the crane yesterday. I’m a carver. I can’t—I won’t change the design. It’s my job to get you from the paper to the wood and I’m not going to let you dictate to me how to do my job. You may have been stuck in the same position since Hokusai made you but that’s your problem. It’s your job to stick to the arrangement and keep the picture as it’s supposed to be.”
The turtle lowered his head. “I just wanted a little change.”
“I know. Really, I do. But off you go.”
“Fine,” the turtle said and resumed his original position. The ripples stopped their rhythmic motion and the original three sakura blossoms returned. “Just get my head right this time. The last guy that carved me didn’t get my head right. And my eyes. And my shell. Don’t mess it up or I’ll look wrong in every print.”
“I’ll do my best but I’m only a carver, if a pretty good one.”
Yamato set the tip of the knife to the surface of the wood right at the tip of the turtle’s nose.
“You’re going to start there? Why don’t you start somewhere that doesn’t matter as much?”
“Would you be quiet and stop moving or I will mess it up and it won’t be my fault.”
The turtle descended into discontented silence and Yamato, knife in hand, nicked sliver after sliver of wood from the block as darkness fell outside and the lone lamp burned overhead.
The block was small and fairly simple and Yamato made good progress, carving all the lines for the turtle and moving on to the cherry blossoms, saving the ripples in the water for last.
There was a flutter of wings and a small wooden crane about ten inches tall alighted on the floor next to the table. It was made of light cherry wood, just like the turtle, but somehow its feathers also showed color: pure white with a black rump, a black neck, black feathers around its eyes, and a white head with a red spot on the very top.
Yamato jumped so violently that he nearly sent wood block, knife, stone, and tea flying across the room.
He peered closely at the bird. “Crane? Wha—how did you get out of your block?”
The crane held up his wings. “Flew.”
“I can see that. What I mean is, how did you get out of the block, literally, out of the wood?”
The crane seemed to shrug, as much as a crane can be expected to shrug given its physiology.
“I got out.”
Yamato supposed he’d have to accept this for the moment.
“Okay. What are you doing?”
“Heard you carving. Came to take a look.”
“You shouldn’t be out of your block. You should go back,” Yamato said, leaning over his work again.
“Hungry.”
“What?”
“I’m hungry.”
“What do wooden cranes eat?”
“Seeds, leaves, nuts, berries, fruit, insects, worms, snails, small mammals and birds and—reptiles.”
“Hmm.” Yamato sliced another bit of wood from the block. “All made of wood of course?”
“Naturally.”
Yamato grabbed the sharpening stone and ran the blade over it several times.
There was another flutter of wings and Yamato looked up in time to see the crane pluck the turtle from the block and fly to the door.
“Help, help!” The wooden turtle said, a dull green glowing through the wood grain.
The crane landed and looked at Yamato.
“Put that back. Now,” he said.
The crane shook its head.
“Small reptiles, huh?”
It nodded.
“I need that turtle.”
“‘Ungry,” it said through the mouthful of turtle.
“Eat something else,” said the turtle.
“If I carve you something else to eat will you put him back?”
The crane thought for a moment, shuffling from one foot to the other, its wooden black eyes narrowed. Then it bobbed its head.
“Alright, then. Put him back.”
The crane waltzed over to Yamato and dropped the turtle onto the wood block.
Like a ball of sand melting away when just barely overrun by the oncoming surf, the turtle collapsed into the wood block, becoming soft at the edges, merging with the wood, and resuming his previously flat appearance.
Yamato set the unfinished block aside and went to the corner of the room where he had a small case of cast-off blocks, pieces of wood that had proven unsuitable or on which he had made a rare mistake.
He sat down at the table, glanced over at the waiting bird, grabbed his knife, and started carving freehand, no image or stencil or tracing to guide him.
That was a new experience.
As a carver he had always translated the designer’s work from paper to wood. Always another’s work. A carver is a professional, a laborer; immensely skilled but not an artist in his own right.
And Yamato struggled.
The knife dug into the wood, sliver after sliver curled and hopped from the block to be brushed to the floor but the worm he was trying to carve started to look less like the worm that he had pictured in his mind and more like a stick with odd proportions.
Yamato sat back and stared at his work.
He looked at the crane.
The crane walked over and pecked at the block of wood. The worm, once rigid and boxy, riggled and glistened in the crane’s mouth. It threw back the worm and swallowed.
“More.”
Yamato turned back to the wood.
Now he worked quickly, skillfully carving small circles in the wood, one after another, slicing the outline with three quick strokes of the blade.
The crane pecked at the wood again and a wood-grained berry as red as the bird’s eye emerged and disappeared into the crane’s mouth followed by the dozen others on the block.
Next, another worm, a snail, round and coiled tight, acorns and nuts. The crane ate them all, one by one.
“Good. More.”
“That’s one greedy bird, Yamato,” said the turtle. “Can I have a worm?”
Yamato rolled his eyes only to find the turtle had broken the bonds of his prison as well and was standing next to the table on the opposite side from the crane.
Yamato took another small block of wood and carved several worms before placing the block on the floor next to the turtle.
Yamato watched him snap up the worm, slurping and gulping.
“Good?”
“Not bad.”
“Take it up with the chef. Anything else, crane?”
“Fish.”
“Coming right up.”
Yamato carved a fish that would be a large meal for a ten-inch crane. He smiled at the ridiculous nature of the meal he was serving up as the fish took shape. With an oblong body and small tail it would be hard to interpret the fish as anything but a tuna, a giant of the sea hundreds of times heavier than a crane in normal circumstances.
As Yamato cut the final slice, with a slight crack the tuna popped from the block flopping and wriggling like so many of its larger brethren plucked from the sea and fell onto the floor.
The crane’s head darted down and it emerged from under the table with the tuna firmly held in its beak. The tuna’s powerful body continued to wriggle, causing the cranes entire head to shake rhythmically.
When it finally swallowed the tuna whole with a couple tosses of its head, the crane’s throat expanded and shook violently as the tuna thrashed about on its long journey to the belly of the bird.
“Good?” Yamato asked, trying not to think about whether or not he had just fed a sentient wooden tuna, or worms or snails, to an apparently sentient miniature wooden crane.
The crane nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He paused, curiosity getting the better of him. “Was that fish—?”
“Like us?” the turtle said.
“Yeah.”
“No. This is from Hokusai. When you make us as he intended, true to his vision, we can come out of the wood.”
“But you were trying to get me to change you.”
“Can you blame me for wanting a little change?”
“So all this time, until I carved you, Crane, yesterday, I wasn’t true to his vision? I’ve been doing this for twenty years.”
The turtle lifted his shell, an apparent shrug.
“Are you both actually here? I’m not imaging you, am I?”
The crane looked at the turtle, then looked at Yamato, unblinking.
“You’re asking a wooden turtle and a wooden crane?” the turtle said.
Yamato sighed. “So what now?”
“You’ll need to take care of us.”
“Food,” said the crane.
“Can I make prints with your blocks?”
“Oh yes,” said the turtle, “we always go back to our blocks. Eventually.”
“Of you go, then. Both of you. Turtle, I still need to finish your block.”
“Oh, alright,” said the turtle, and trundled over to his block.
“Bye,” said the crane and flew off to his keyblock in the corner to melt back into the wood.
Yamato placed the cherry wood block back on the table and picked up his knife again. As he held it above the surface of the wood, he hesitated. A question nagged at him: if he was now good enough to carve true to Hokusai’s vision, accurately translating the artist’s work, how many more wooden companions would emerge from the new blocks he was going to carve to make prints from the great artist’s work?
Yamato took a breath and set knife to wood.