Foreword
Two years ago, I traveled to Japan to explore the country at my own pace and discover new Japanese artists for my art gallery.
First, I was introduced to the amazing work of Hajime Namiki, a contemporary woodblock master, and then Yowsaku Sekino, also from Tokyo. I loved Japan so much that I decided to come again last year. And now planning my trip this year as well. Japan is out of this world. Japan's cultural heritage, and, in my opinion, its post-war art, is still largely underappreciated in the West.
In November 2024, I stumbled across Kenichi Kuriyagawa's art and immediately fell in love.
These prints were made in 1988, but look so modern in 2025. They resemble something generated by ChatGPT, with a distinctly AI feel to them. They also seem like the futuristic landscapes from Japanese anime, set on distant, unspoiled planets.
Yet, they are not AI. They are just so ahead of their time. They are so modern, yet so serene, so cinematic, and so romantic. Kenichi's love is shining through them. As he said so eloquently:
"There is nothing that I don't love."
I am honored to present this series of his 30 silkscreen prints in the exhibit I could only have named the "Four Seasons."
-- Max Khusid, Art House SF gallery
Kenichi Kuriyagawa
Kenichi Kuriyagawa (1911–1999) was a self-taught Japanese graphic designer and printmaker, renowned for his profound influence on modern design in Hokkaido and beyond.
He began his design career in 1948. At a time when Japan was rebuilding its cultural image after World War II, Kuriyagawa’s works contributed significantly to promoting regional pride and tourism.
In 1956, his works were showcased in the Japanese Graphic Design Exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA), New York.
“I love the trees, the leaves, the flowers, the birds of my land, and I have a deep affection for every nameless wild plant and its modest, simple, delicate flower.”
To emphasize the dynamic nature and vastness of Hokkaido, he used an extreme composition that emphasized perspective and a bird’s-eye view to create a dramatic impression, and also incorporated cinematic techniques such as long shots and emphasis on light and dark.
Kenichi Kuriyagawa remains a seminal figure in the evolution of modern Japanese design. His pioneering approach — merging local cultural identity with global modernist aesthetics — laid the groundwork for regional design movements within Japan.
Father of Hokkaido Design
Kenichi was known in Japan and elsewhere for his posters to promote tourism in Hokkaido.
Kuriyagawa designed posters for the 1972 Sapporo Winter Olympics, the 1964 Tokyo and the 1984 Sapporo Olympics bids.
His art style was defined by:
In 1962, Kuriyagawa founded the Hokkaido Design Institute. He also led the Japan Advertising Artists Association and the Hokkaido Design Association.
His contributions helped to raise the level of Hokkaido’s design scene, earning him the nickname “The father of Hokkaido design.”
Hokkaidō
Hokkaidō, Japan's last frontier, is a large island in the North of Japan which borders Russian Far East and Siberia.
Until 1860s it was known to the Japanese as "land of the barbarians" or "the land for people who did not obey the government." Hokkaido was primarily inhabited by the local Ainu people. In 1869, following the Meiji Restoration, the entire island was annexed, colonized, and renamed Hokkaidō by Japan.
Since the Japanese lacked expertise in modern agricultural techniques, they turned to the United States for help. In 1871, they recruited Horace Capron, President Ulysses S. Grant’s commissioner of agriculture. In 1876, they hired William S. Clark as a foreign advisor to establish the Sapporo Agricultural College, now Hokkaidō University. Within a decade, the population of Hokkaidō increased from 58,000 to 240,000, including many settlers from the “mainland”.
Today, Hokkaidō is an agricultural breadbasket thanks to large-scale, mechanized farming.
Hokkaidō is renowned for its natural beauty, volcanoes, hot springs, sparsely populated landscapes, stunning lakes, spectacular autumn foliage, and breathtaking winter landscapes. It is inhabited by brown bears, red-crowned cranes (Kushiro), Ezo red foxes, and Dosanko indigenous horses. 11,450 people self-identify as the native Ainu people in Hokkaidō.
Four Seasons
"The four seasons in Hokkaido are always different.
The passage of "seasons and time" never shows the same appearance. It makes us realize just how tiny we humans are in comparison to the greatness of nature. However, expressing it in the form of a painting is extremely difficult, even at a fraction of the original size. Still, I can't suppress the urge to draw.
The 30 prints shown here were put together while savoring the joy of regaining my eyesight after undergoing eye surgery two years ago.
The theme is "Northern skies, snow, wind and greenery."
You could say it's a small gift to the nature of my hometown."
Kenichi Kuriyagawa
Lake where Kobushi Blooms
For those of us living in Hokkaido, we can hear the footsteps of spring as we pass mid-March. The snow is still deep, the temperature is low, and the wind is cold. Of course, this is the season when we rely on stoves. There are still two months until the cherry blossoms bloom, but we can still feel spring coming. Although we cannot see it with our eyes, we know that the ground beneath the snow is starting to thaw. I think that a space has opened up between the ground and the snow, and the spring river is beginning to flow.
Birch Forest (March)
It has already been three months since the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice in December, and the daylight hours have increased by an hour and a half. Evidence of the increasing strength of the sun's rays can be seen in the light of the snowdrops that fall ceaselessly from the eaves. Wild birds such as hawks flap their wings and approach to drink these drops.
When the drift ice leaves.
It still snows in April, but the snow melts rapidly. This is the time when the city is dirtiest with snow and mud. The trees are still bare, but their hard buds have already swelled and the snow has fallen only around their base. This is my favorite time of the year. I feel like looking forward to tomorrow's fun.
Dandelions Blooming
Like watercolors, layered one brush stroke at a time, the mountains and forests begin to change color and sprout, and before you know it, yellow, pink, white, blue, and purple flowers bloom generously on the ground. It seems that every year around May 25th, the sound of cuckoos can be heard from beyond the horizon of spring.
Seeing the horses, cows and sheep grazing in the pasture where dandelions are blooming everywhere, you can almost sense their joy at being released from their winter barns.
When the water gets warm
When I lie down in the grass smoking a cigarette, a cow comes over quietly, as if it has something to do with me. The inhabitants of this farm are the stars of my posters. It is impossible to count the number of times they have appeared. I sometimes draw fifty or sixty cows on one poster.
I close my eyes, feeling intoxicated by the smell of fresh grass, and hear the buzzing of insects around my ears. They are very small lives.
Spring in the plains
Before the summer cicadas, the spring cicadas sing. Their cries are so deafening that they fill the mountain behind our houses, but they only last about a week and then suddenly stop.
Looking back on my life, spring has always been a time of change, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse.
Unlike bears, humans do not hibernate, but for the people of Hokkaido, spring is the season when they try to take on new activities. If spring serves as a spring impetus for action, it is not inconceivable that we humans also wake up from hibernation.
Young Leaves Revive
In recent years, the world has become busier and the cycle of a year seems to have become shorter. In any case, a year passes by too quickly. I don't think it's just my feeling that it's a matter of age, but I think it's because the mechanisms of social systems have gradually become computerized. It's commonly believed that people from Hokkaido are laid-back, but that may no longer be the case. However, no matter how the world changes, I would like to preserve at least a laid-back, relaxed temperament.
Notsuke Peninsula
Todohara Sad
When the long-awaited spring finally arrives, we may feel as empty as a Sunday afternoon, crying out, "Spring is coming!" through the snow. But the season of spring comes around to us every year, and it gives us the joy of being alive.
Swamp on a remote island
The mid-June, when the acacia trees lining the streets start to sprout white tassels, marks the boundary between late spring and early summer.
As usual, midsummer-like days arrive around this time, but it's too early to think that summer has arrived, as soon as the weather cools down again and the chilly days continue, making you want to turn on the heater. This is jokingly referred to as a "lilac chill." "Rairakku", or lilac in French, comes in purple and white and can be found in every home's garden, but it is a flower that suits Sapporo well.
Before the war, starting with the Sapporo Shrine festival on June 15th, police officers carrying sabres would wrap the tops of their hats in white cloth and change into white clothes, which was also one of the signs of summer.
Early Summer Blooms
Hokkaido does not have a rainy season, but there are quite a few rainy days from June to July. However, there is no humidity.
Depending on the mood of the Okhotsk Sea high-pressure system, it can be a hot summer or a cold summer.
This is the peak season for the primeval flower gardens on the Okhotsk coast.
Bright Twilight
Our garden is about 660m² and is mostly grass, with a haphazard array of trees planted around it. There are over 30 varieties of trees, including birch, apples, and cherries. Crocuses bud from under the snow and bloom one after another until autumn. Although it's a small field, peas, cucumbers, tomatoes, and other crops add freshness to our breakfast table.
Recently, there has been talk of moving to an apartment in my family. We know that will happen eventually, but when you live surrounded by all this greenery, it's hard to come to a decision so easily.
Sea of Japan
I grew up in a mountainous country, and I was 13 when I saw the ocean for the first time. Somewhere in my mind, I felt a sense of shock and fear, and I have never really gotten used to it.
Canal of no return
I feel more at home in the mountains and lakes. Watching a flowing river or a quiet lake soothes the soul. In Sapporo, where I live, there is a large river called the Toyohira River, which joins the Ishikari River downstream, but there is also a small river called the Sousei River that flows through the city.
When I was seven years old, my father, who had a chest disease, left the countryside and stayed in a rented house in an apple orchard on the outskirts to receive treatment. My mother and I walked about five kilometers to the city, with my sister in a stroller. On the way closer to the city, we came to the Sousei River, lined with willow trees. I still remember that summer day when the shadows of the willows were reflected on my mother's parasol. Six years later, my father passed away at the young age of 46, and my mother passed away a few years ago at the age of 90.
Lavender Hill
Many of the posters I draw for Hokkaido are for summer, because summer is the season for tourism. Also, the subject of my material is often farmland, which I personally like, and as a designer, I thought it would be an appropriate subject to convey the buttery smell of Hokkaido.
The Japanese National Railways' publicity staff also thought that the horizontal letters HOKKAIDO could be used because it was Hokkaido.
Sun and Air
I once asked an acquaintance who runs a farm to give me an internship. The owner asked me to do a day's work, starting with waking up at 4 am and cleaning up cow dung. After hearing that, I never thought about it again and decided to observe from the outside.
Everything around the farm is wonderful to me. Every single cow brush and grass fork is an object of art. The brick silos, the cowsheds painted orange, the white window frames, the stains and knotholes in the boards. The cowboys in sweat-stained work clothes. The green of the poplars shining in the wind, the cumulonimbus clouds rising above the Japanese larch forest.
There is nothing that I don't love.
The Northernmost Unexplored Region
As the sounds of Obon drums begin to ring out in the twilight hours of the small park, children in yukatas form a circle around a lit tower and begin to dance, enjoying the evenings of summer vacation that are soon to end. As if lured by the sounds of the drums, the autumn wind sways the lanterns beside the tower and creeps up to the dancing children's arms.
After the peak season for corn, watermelons, and melons has passed, apples begin to change color. The once bustling seaside has regained its tranquility, and the only sound left is the autumn sea, with only the sound of waves lapping on the sand. The white sails of a yacht floating offshore still retain a faint remnant of summer.
Cape of setting Sun
One day at the end of summer, I went to Cape Elimo for an assignment. The wind had already given me a feeling of autumn, and purple thistle flowers were swaying. Several sheep were crouching in the grass, looking cold. From the tip of the cape, I walked down a steep, narrow path for about 100 meters to reach the rocky shore.
From there, I crossed a precarious-looking temporary bridge and descended to the third large rock formation offshore. In the shadow of the rock formation, there was a sandy area of about 10 tsubo (approx. 33 sq. m), and the top was completely covered with seashells of all sizes. The amazing shapes and colors of the shells made me wonder if it was just a vision.
I have decided to believe that I was the only one to see this precious scenery in the rough seas of Elimo, a place known for its dangerous sea conditions.
Seven-Colored Space
The beauty of the autumn leaves varies depending on how early or late the frost falls. The leaves begin to change color on Mount Daisetsu from mid-September, and it takes a month for them to reach the villages. The earliest to turn red are the leaves of wild grapes and lacquer trees. Autumn ends when the Japanese larch trees shed their fine leaves. Maples turn a vibrant crimson, and the yellow of katsura and white birch trees mix together to create an even more complex and gorgeous color.
Hidaka and the Pacific coast of Akan, which are often foggy in summer, experience successive periods of clear autumn weather, and the mountains and lakes become transformed into a world of autumn leaves.
Near the Departure Point
Hidaka and Akan are also the lands richest in the history and legends of the indigenous Ainu people, and many of them have settled there. Their lifestyle of being one with nature, gathering natural products, hunting, and fishing, was disrupted by contact with Japanese people during the Meiji period.
The highly refined designs seen in the textiles, wood carvings, and other daily necessities from the time when the Ainu people were preserving their unique culture exude artistic charm in their simplicity.
I feel boundless romance and respect for the people who have lived in this cold region for hundreds of years, revering nature and animals as gods.
Marsh Twilight
If you were asked where the most typical autumn in Hokkaido is, you would answer Kushiro Marsh.
The endless yellow reed land and the clear blue sky show the roundness of the earth in a magnificent and simple composition.
The flying of the wild red-crowned cranes that live in this marsh adds a sense of splendor to this lonely landscape.
Burning Autumn Inlet
The Sea of Okhotsk shows its autumn colors, white waves crash on the shore, schools of salmon gather in excitement, the hamanasu fruits turn red, and salmon begin to swim up all the rivers.
Lake of Kamui
The misty Lake Mashu and Lake Akan, with their hidden marimo algae, color the lake surface brilliantly, making us mourn the short autumn.
Abashiri is also one of my favorite places. It is dotted with Lake Tofutsu, Lake Mokoto, Lake Abashiri, Lake Notoro, and Lake Saroma. In particular, Lake Notoro, which has its mouth on the Sea of Okhotsk, is dyed red with a flower called akeshi grass. This annual plant is said to be carried by the waves. On days when the clouds are low and the lake surface looks white, the red field looks like small flames are burning.
This sad but beautiful red will soon burn out. Soon, sleet will fall on the lake, signaling the end of late autumn and autumn in the far north.
-30 degrees Celsius
When I was a child, the harsh winter of the early Taisho period was a direct hit, and we endured the cold of minus 20 degrees without any help. Even with the coal stove burning red hot, the cold chill was creeping up my back. Also, when I woke up in the morning, my breath had frozen around the collar of my quilt, turning it white. I wore a thick knitted shirt, a sarumata, and thigh-length pants as underwear. I wore a cotton kimono and haori with cotton filling, and sturdy tabi socks called Oni-jirushi.
When I went outside, I wore a tako hat, a neck wrap, bokko gloves, and straw shoes. No matter how much I wore, I couldn't get my body warm, so I always had two sticks hanging under my nose, and my cheeks were red and cracked. Even so, the children were flying kites, skating in the snow, and sledding, forgetting to go inside. My cuffs and hems were frozen solid, so I had to go near the stove and spend time melting the ice and drying them.
The Lonely Monk
During the war, I worked for a company, but was stuck in Niseko for a week for a ski instructor course. I had soup and one dish for breakfast, and a Japanese flag bento with potatoes for lunch. I was given my license after a tough course, but I didn't do very well. In front of my house is a steep slope, 400 meters to the bottom.
When I came here 23 years ago, there were hardly any cars on the road, so I was able to enjoy skiing. When I was skiing down the slope, a bus would come by and I would ride it as a ski lift. If there were a ski competition, I would ride the course for an endurance race.
Shiretoko Journey
Now there are many cars and crowded houses, making this a memory from a long time ago. Many of the forests in Hokkaido, which have few evergreen trees, barely have any leaves in winter. The only trees showing their brown, dead leaves are the oak trees.
I can see the natural forest across the road from my studio all year round, but by the end of November, it is beautifully bare. In some years, it can be as early as late October.
Three White Worlds
Sleet starts to fall. It will be winter for half a year until the greenery comes back to this forest. In the past, you could only see green leaves of pine and Japanese bamboo in winter. If you were lucky, you would open a wooden box of mandarin oranges on New Year's Day and find one or two of the oranges with shiny green leaves, which made children happy.
Thinking about it, these green leaves may have been gifts from adults in the producing areas to children in the northern part of the country.
The sound of bells goes
Nowadays, with the spread of cold-climate housing, people are keeping their rooms warm day and night, so there are many homes with tropical trees in bloom. Winter in the city is often thought of as gray. In the past, clothing was a world of achromatic black and gray, but now winter is rather more colorful.
In February, snow festivals and ice festivals are held in various places. It seems to be more about enjoying winter life, but it contributes greatly to the transitional period of the tourism industry.
It was the idea of a man named Kondo, who was the only person running the tourist association secretariat at the time. I drew the first poster in 1977, and the same design was used for the next eight years.
Snow Light
Winter brings with it many painful problems for those who live here. It is a huge social and personal burden, economically and mentally. But even though it is such a harsh place, it has a charm that people from southern countries could never understand.
The only answer for this, which seems contradictory, is that winter is one of the four seasons. It is not as simple as being able to enjoy skiing and skating nearby, but something much bigger gives meaning to the existence of winter.
The world of the red-crowned crane
Whether it's a gray, dark day with powdery snow falling quietly, a blizzard that covers everything in a white curtain, or a day when the sun shines brightly and the temperature drops to minus 10 degrees, it is a winter day that surely marks the arrival of spring.
"Ya Balozi" by the South African artist from Johannesburg, Splash Motong
