When the east tipped the west: The day a japanese print changed the course of painting
Paris, autumn 1886. In the smoke-filled studio on rue Lepic, a man with red hair and a wild beard carefully unfolds a fragile sheet of paper. His fingers, used to kneading oily paste, tremble slightly. Before his eyes, a monstrous wave rises, ready to swallow tiny boats. The black outlines, sharp as
By Artedusa
••9 min read
When the East tipped the West: the day a Japanese print changed the course of painting
Paris, autumn 1886. In the smoke-filled studio on rue Lepic, a man with red hair and a wild beard carefully unfolds a fragile sheet of paper. His fingers, used to kneading oily paste, tremble slightly. Before his eyes, a monstrous wave rises, ready to swallow tiny boats. The black outlines, sharp as a blade, contrast with the deep blue and creamy white flat areas. The Great Wave off Kanagawa, signed Hokusai.
Vincent van Gogh has just received a package from his brother Theo. Inside, dozens of Japanese prints, bought for a few coins from a street vendor. That evening, in the flickering light of an oil lamp, something breaks in European art. The rules of perspective, the carefully graded shadows, the noble and historical subjects—all of it suddenly seems outdated, almost ridiculous, faced with this bold simplicity. Van Gogh would later write: “All my work is based to some extent on Japanese art.” But what he doesn’t say is that on that night, gazing at that wave, he glimpsed the future of painting.
The gates of Japan open: the shock of an unknown world
Imagine an entire continent unaware of another’s existence. For two hundred and fifty years, Japan lived in isolation, cut off from the rest of the world by the sakoku policy. Foreign ships approaching its shores were driven back by cannon fire. Then, in 1853, Commodore Matthew Perry landed with his “black ships,” forcing the Tokugawa shogunate to sign the Convention of Kanagawa. The seclusion was over.
But this was not just a matter of trade treaties. It was an entire civilization suddenly pouring into Europe, in the form of objects: lacquered screens with crane and pine motifs, ceramics with streamlined shapes, prints in vivid colors depicting kabuki actors, courtesans, landscapes. These objects, initially used as wrapping for porcelain, quickly became coveted treasures. In 1867, at the Paris Universal Exposition, the Japanese pavilion drew crowds. Visitors, accustomed to heavy neoclassical decor, were left speechless by these clean lines, calculated asymmetries, and pure colors.
Among them was a young painter named Édouard Manet. He bought a print by Utamaro depicting a courtesan and hung it in his studio. A few months later, he painted Portrait of Émile Zola (1868). In the background, a Japanese screen and a Kuniyoshi engraving are visible. But the most revealing detail is almost invisible: a print by Utamaro, discreetly tucked behind the model. Manet did not merely admire Japanese art—he claimed it as an influence, almost as a manifesto.
The revolution through emptiness: when the absence of perspective becomes a strength
Until the mid-19th century, European painting was built on a dogma: linear perspective, inherited from the Renaissance. Artists spent years studying the rules of depth, cast shadows, and proportions. Then came the Japanese prints, and everything collapsed.
Take Hokusai’s Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji. In The Great Wave, Mount Fuji, tiny on the horizon, seems crushed by the mass of water dominating the composition. No realistic perspective could justify this disproportion. And yet, the effect is striking. European artists, used to depicting the world as it should be, suddenly discovered that it could be shown as it is perceived.
Claude Monet would experience this in his garden at Giverny. In 1890, he designed a water lily pond, inspired by Japanese gardens. But it was not just about the plants. It was a way of seeing. In Water Lilies, Monet abandoned all notion of depth. The flowers float on the water’s surface, as if on a single plane, without background or foreground. Colors echo in flat areas, without gradients. It looks like a Hiroshige print transposed into oil painting.
Then there was Edgar Degas. He, who had spent his life studying the movement of dancers, discovered in Toyohara Chikanobu’s prints a radically new way of framing a scene. In The Dance Class (1874), the ballerinas are cut off by the edge of the canvas, as if the scene continued beyond the frame. Bare feet, white tutus, half-hidden faces—all of it recalls the dynamic poses of kabuki actors. Degas even adopted a technique close to woodblock printing: monotype, which allowed for effects of transparency and overlapping planes.
Van Gogh and Japan: an obsession bordering on madness
Among all European artists, Vincent van Gogh was undoubtedly the one most deeply marked by Japanese art. Not just as an influence, but as a revelation, almost a religion.
In 1887, he painted The Courtesan, based on a print by Kesai Eisen. But he did not merely copy. He transformed. The original print depicted a courtesan in a kimono, standing near a bridge. Van Gogh added a background of bamboo and a boat, as if to create a more “Japanese” atmosphere. The colors, already bright in the original, became dazzling: red, green, yellow, juxtaposed without transition. The black outlines, typical of ukiyo-e, were accentuated, almost aggressive.
What fascinated Van Gogh was not just Japanese aesthetics, but its philosophy. In a letter to his brother Theo, he wrote: “The Japanese draw quickly, very quickly, like lightning. It’s because their nerves are finer, their feeling simpler.” For him, Japanese art embodied a form of purity, spontaneity, far from European academic conventions.
He collected prints with frenzy. More than six hundred were found among his belongings after his death. Among them were works by Hokusai, Hiroshige, and Utamaro. Some hung on the walls of his studio; others were glued to the frames of his own paintings. In Portrait of Père Tanguy (1887), the color merchant is depicted in front of a wall covered with Japanese prints. Even Sudden Shower over Shin-Ōhashi Bridge by Hiroshige is visible, like a discreet homage.
But Van Gogh did not stop at admiration. He wanted to become Japanese. In 1888, he wrote to Theo: “I’m sure I’d be happier in Japan, where one works as much as one breathes.” He dreamed of creating an artists’ colony in Arles, inspired by the Japanese ideal. Of course, this dream never came true. But his obsession with Japan left an indelible mark on his work.
Toulouse-Lautrec and the Parisian kabuki: when theater becomes art
Paris, 1892. The Divan Japonais was one of the most fashionable cafés-concerts in the capital. People came to hear bawdy songs, to see dancers in light dresses, to drink champagne in an exotic atmosphere. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, a regular of the cabarets, received a commission: to create a poster to promote the venue.
He drew directly from Kuniyoshi and Utamaro’s prints, which depicted kabuki theater scenes. The composition was bold: in the foreground, a figure seen from behind, that of the singer Yvette Guilbert, recognizable by her long black gloves. In the background, the dancer Jane Avril, her face half-hidden by a fan. The colors were reduced to their simplest expression: black, red, yellow.
But the most striking thing was how Lautrec captured movement. As in Japanese prints, the poses were dynamic, almost theatrical. The lines were sharp, the outlines emphasized. It looked like a kabuki scene transposed into Belle Époque Paris.
Lautrec did not merely copy. He reinterpreted. In his posters, women were no longer passive objects of desire but powerful, almost mysterious figures. Like the courtesans of ukiyo-e, they embodied both beauty and melancholy, eroticism and distance.
The invisible legacy: when Japonism becomes the norm
By the end of the 19th century, Japonism was no longer a passing trend. It had become an integral part of European art. But its influence was so deep that it became almost invisible.
Take Gustav Klimt. In The Kiss (1908), the golden motifs enveloping the lovers recall Japanese screens. The geometric shapes, the flat areas of color—all of it owed much to ukiyo-e aesthetics. Yet Klimt never directly cited Japan. He had absorbed the influence, made it his own.
The same was true for Alphonse Mucha. His posters, with their sinuous lines and floral motifs, owed much to Japanese prints. But here again, the influence was so well integrated that it went unnoticed.
And then there was Pablo Picasso. In Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907), the angular faces, overlapping planes, and absence of perspective all recalled Japanese prints. Picasso did not hide it: “Japanese art taught me to simplify forms.”
Today, when you look at a painting by David Hockney, with its bright colors and bold framing, or a work by Yayoi Kusama, with its repetitive patterns, you are seeing the legacy of Japonism. Even if you don’t realize it.
Japonism today: a revolution still alive
More than a hundred and fifty years after Japan’s opening, the influence of Japanese prints on European art remains palpable. But it has evolved, transformed, taken on new forms.
In design, ukiyo-e motifs still inspire creators. Hermès collaborated with Japanese artists to create silk scarves with floral patterns. Louis Vuitton worked with Takashi Murakami, blending pop and traditional aesthetics.
In cinema, directors like Wes Anderson (The Grand Budapest Hotel) or Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation) draw inspiration from the framing and colors of Japanese prints. Even Hayao Miyazaki, in his animated films, perpetuates the legacy of ukiyo-e.
And then there is contemporary art. Artists like Mariko Mori or Tabaimo reinterpret traditional Japanese themes through a modern lens. Their works, exhibited in the world’s greatest museums, show that Japonism has not finished surprising us.
What if Japonism had never existed?
Imagine a world without Monet’s Water Lilies, without Van Gogh’s Starry Night, without Toulouse-Lautrec’s posters. A world where European painting remained trapped in academic rules, where colors stayed dull, compositions symmetrical.
Japonism was more than a trend. It was a revolution, a cultural shock that upended European art. It allowed artists to free themselves from conventions, to see the world differently, to create with more freedom.
Today, when you contemplate a print by Hokusai or a painting by Van Gogh, you are not just looking at a work of art. You are seeing the result of an encounter between two worlds, a dialogue between two cultures. And that dialogue, more than a century later, continues to inspire us.
When the east tipped the west: The day a japanese print changed the course of painting | Art History
