Traditional Japanese Nihonga Painting Methods

The Unseen Thread: How Tibetan Thangka Illuminates the Hidden Heart of Nihonga

For many in the West, Japanese art brings to mind the swift, evocative brushstrokes of sumi-e ink wash or the dazzling, flat planes of color in a ukiyo-e woodblock print. But there exists another realm, one of profound depth, mineral brilliance, and spiritual resonance: Nihonga. Translated simply as "Japanese painting," Nihonga is far from simple. It is a deliberate, modern tradition born in the late 19th century as a conscious counterpoint to Western oil painting, yet its roots dig deep into a soil nourished by techniques and philosophies that span Asia. And in a fascinating twist of cultural dialogue, the current global fascination with Tibetan Buddhist thangka painting acts as a powerful lens, suddenly bringing Nihonga’s most esoteric and material-centric practices into startling, clear focus. To understand Nihonga’s soul, one must follow the thread back along the Silk Road, to the high plateaus of Tibet.

Beyond the Brush: A Philosophy in Pigment

At its core, Nihonga is not defined by subject matter—be it serene landscapes, delicate flora, or historical narratives—but by its materials and its mindset. It is an art of shikunshi (the four gentlemen: orchid, bamboo, chrysanthemum, plum) painted with the very substance of the earth. This is where the journey inward begins.

• The Mineral Mindset: Unlike Western paints that sit on the surface, Nihonga pigments become the surface. Artists grind their own colors from semi-precious stones: malachite for greens, azurite for blues, cinnabar for reds, and powdered shell for the luminous white called gofun. Each particle is irregular, catching light in a way synthetic pigments cannot. This process is meditative and intimate. The artist knows the character of each stone, its granularity, its temperament. This is not a practice of convenience but of communion. The material is not a means to an end; it is integral to the meaning. Herein lies the first, profound echo of thangka: the sacred mandate to use pure, natural minerals, each color carrying symbolic weight and vibrational potency, turning the painting into a literal repository of earthly and celestial energy.

The Structural Soul: From Silk to Sumi

A Nihonga painting is built, not merely drawn. Its support is as crucial as its pigment.

• The Foundation: Uwabe and Shikishi: The journey of a Nihonga often starts with a meticulously prepared ground. For flexible works, heavy washi (Japanese paper) or silk is stretched and treated with a mixture of animal-hide glue (nikawa) and gofun. This creates a luminous, slightly absorbent, yet resilient surface that can accept countless delicate layers. For panels, wood is covered with cloth and multiple layers of this glue-gofun mixture, sanded to an ivory-smooth finish. This ground is not passive; its whiteness is active, designed to reflect light back through the translucent mineral layers applied atop it, creating that signature inner glow. Compare this to the thangka’s cotton canvas, painstakingly primed with a chalky paste, stretched on a frame, and polished to a perfect smoothness—a ritualistic preparation that transforms cloth into a receptacle for the divine.

• The Binding Force: Nikawa (Animal Glue): Here is the alchemical secret. The powdered minerals are useless without their binder: nikawa, derived from deer or bovine hide. Mixed with warm water, it becomes the medium. The artist must work with temperature and speed, as the glue sets quickly. This demands decisiveness and a deep understanding of the paint’s behavior. The glue’s concentration affects the paint’s opacity and sheen. It is a demanding, unforgiving medium that links the artist to ancient, pre-industrial craft traditions across Eurasia. It is the exact same technical principle used in thangka painting and, before that, in the wall paintings of the Silk Road caves at Dunhuang—a direct material lineage.

Technique as Meditation: Layering Light and Line

The application of these pigments is a dance of restraint and accumulation.

• Tarashikomi: The Pooled Essence: One of Nihonga’s most celebrated techniques is tarashikomi (dripping-in). A layer of paint is applied, and while still wet, a second, differently colored or concentrated drop of paint is introduced, allowing it to spread and bloom organically. The result is a beautiful, unpredictable gradient, perfect for depicting the soft decay of a petal or the mist on a mountain. It is a technique that embraces chance while requiring absolute control of timing and moisture—a collaboration between artist and material.

• Mokkotsu and Kotsu-boku: Bone and Spirit: Nihonga employs two primary approaches. Mokkotsu (boneless method) dispenses with ink outlines, relying solely on areas of color and wash to define forms, creating a soft, atmospheric effect. Kotsu-boku (bone-ink method) uses firm, expressive ink outlines as the structural skeleton, which is then filled with color. This directly mirrors, and indeed historically shares ancestry with, the thangka painter’s rigorous process: the precise, geometric underpinning of the deity’s form via a grid, the sure, black ink outline that defines sacred boundaries, and the subsequent filling-in of colors according to strict iconographic scripture. In both, the line is not just description; it is architecture and law.

• Iwa-enogu and Metal: The Luminous Detail: The final stages involve the application of thick, opaque mineral pigments (iwa-enogu) for textural emphasis and the breathtaking use of metallic leaf—gold, silver, platinum. Gold is not just color; it is light itself. It is used in Nihonga to depict sunlight, water, or the sacred aura of a kimono. It is applied as leaf, or ground into powder and mixed with glue (kindei), or scattered as flakes. This creates a dynamic surface where light becomes an active participant, changing the painting with the viewer’s perspective. This is the most visceral parallel to thangka. The lavish use of gold in thangka—for halos, mandala lines, and as a pure background—serves the same purpose: to represent the luminous, radiant nature of enlightenment, to transform the image into a source of spiritual illumination. Both traditions understand gold not as decoration, but as a metaphysical material.

Thangka: The Mirror from the Plateau

The contemporary spotlight on Tibetan thangka is no mere art historical trend. It is a gateway to understanding the spiritual and technical underpinnings of much of Asian sacred art. A thangka is a meditation tool, a cosmic diagram, and a deity’s residence. Its creation is a liturgical act, preceded by prayers, executed according to immutable geometric rules (tigse), and intended for use in visualization practice.

When we view Nihonga through this thangka lens, what becomes apparent?

1. The Sacred Materiality: Thangka’s use of crushed lapis lazuli for the Buddha’s hair or malachite for fields forces us to see Nihonga’s grinding of azurite and verdigris not as quaint tradition, but as a shared belief in the power of pure substance. The earth is not inert; it is alive with color and spirit.
2. The Ritual of Process: The thangka painter’s disciplined, prayer-infused routine mirrors the Nihonga artist’s reverent, slow craft. Both require a state of mind as much as a set of skills. The act of painting is a form of concentration, a path to mindfulness.
3. Function Over Form (Ultimately): While a Nihonga of a landscape may hang in a museum, its ancestors—the Buddhist wall paintings in Horyu-ji Temple, the mandalas of the Esoteric sects—were created for ritual, protection, and teaching. The thangka reminds us that Nihonga’s beauty is not merely aesthetic; it is born from a worldview that seeks harmony (wa) and expresses the life force (ki) of all things, from a rock to a god.

The Living Tradition: A Conversation Across Time

Modern Nihonga artists, from the legendary Yokoyama Taikan to contemporary masters like Kayama Matazo and Yamamoto Kyōjin, have pushed the boundaries of the form—incorporating abstract expression, dramatic scales, and personal symbolism. Yet, they never abandon the core: the mineral, the glue, the gold, the built surface. They understand that these materials are their language’s very grammar.

The global intrigue with thangka does not overshadow Nihonga; instead, it provides a vocabulary for audiences to articulate what they instinctively feel when standing before a great Nihonga work. They sense the depth, the patience, the weight of its making. They are responding to the glow of hand-ground azurite, a blue that holds within it the memory of a mountain, and to the pulse of gold leaf, applied not with a brush, but with the breath. In this light, Nihonga is revealed not as a static, national style, but as a vibrant, living branch on an ancient, sprawling tree of Asian artistic spirituality—a tree whose roots are watered by the same philosophies that bloom so vividly on the Tibetan plateau. The thangka, in its stark sacred purpose, holds up a mirror, allowing us to see the profound, often quiet, sacred heart beating within the velvet silence of a Nihonga scroll.