Mushin

Like with Muramasa? That certainly became a problem for both his blades and eventually for people who owned them. But I wonder if there wasn't something else going on here. The tradition of signing and dating blades was established very early, and we know people were already studying and ranking smiths during Norishige's lifetime. If you wanted to be known for producing top-quality work, putting your name on it and telling people when, and sometimes where, you made it seems like a no-brainer especially if you were garnering a reputation. It's almost like if you didn't sign it, you couldn't boast about it. Just spitballing here. Some of our earliest evidence for systematic sword connoisseurship goes back to the late Kamakura period. The Shōwa Meizukushi material dates to 1316. The original is lost, but much of it survives in the Kanchi'in-bon Meizukushi copied in 1423. What's interesting is that by 1316 people were already identifying and distinguishing important smiths. If memory serves me, it listed 52 smiths and gave detailed treatment to about 40 of them, including where they worked, their lineages and periods, characteristics of their workmanship and even the shapes of their nakago. It's the usual suspects: Tomonari, Masatsune, Nobufusa, Awataguchi Yoshimitsu and other major early smiths. So, by the end of Kamakura there was already an emerging recognized hierarchy, and people were paying attention to who made what, where and when they worked, and what distinguished one smith from another. That seems pretty relevant to Norishige. He was working right around the time this was happening, in the world centered on Hōjō power in Kamakura and an elite warrior clientele. It's hard for me to believe the smiths themselves weren't aware that certain names carried prestige and that their work was being recognized and compared. So, I suspect reputation and identification were already part of the considerations behind mei. That doesn't mean a long mei was essentially an advertisement telling some guy hundreds of miles away, “Here's where my shop is, come find me if you want a sword.” That still feels a little too much like imposing a modern consumer model on medieval Japan. It may have been much simpler: this is my work, this is who I am, this is where I come from and this is when I made it. We know those things mattered because people at the time were already recording exactly that kind of information. And maybe that cuts both ways with the idea that a smith might sometimes leave a blade unsigned because he didn't know or trust where it was going. A signature had value because the smith's name had value. But putting your name on a weapon also permanently connected you to something whose future owner and use you couldn't control. I don't think we can prove either explanation. But we do know for sure that when Norishige was signing those works, there was already a culture of reputation, identification and connoisseurship around these blades, and I suspect that had at least as much to do with why important smiths signed their work.

No doubt, it's a thought-provoking, fun theory. Where I agree 100% are that signatures were almost certainly a form of early branding. But to make that branding only economic and not personal pushes the envelope a bit too far for me. I think ruling out the egos of smiths and ateliers to mark a milestone or to organize their corpus would be a mistake. The danger of the theory as currently presented is I think it imposes modern economic thinking and perspective on a medieval culture of a warrior society that was still evolving. It's also is a little too sweeping and too "perfect," squeezing a myriad of reasons and evolving traditions to fit 21st marketing and philosophical thinking. While it is fun to imagine that smiths were supremely aware of their chops, and that the signatures were as much an economic and manufacturing scheme as an expression of ego, I think this assumes too much on the part of the Kamakura/Nanbokucho warrior as consumer. The theory has just too many holes for me. On the subject of mumei blades, a friend of mine who is a big but quiet collector in Florida, spent a lot of time with Yoshindo Yoshihara in Japan about 20 years ago. During that time he noticed that Yoshihara had a stockpile or unsigned works. When somebody would visit his studio and didn't want to commission a work, they would go through what he already made. Once a blade was chosen, Yoshihara would sign it. I often wondered if this was a personal business touch of his, or the practice went further back. If so, it could offer another explanation for mumei blades. Just a thought. Again, the theory is great fodder for further thought. Thanks. Bobby

Dear Hoshi, I think there is an interesting and potentially useful insight here, although I’m not sure I’m willing to follow the theory quite as far as you do. I agree that we probably underappreciate the economic function of mei. A signature was not simply an expression of pride or authorship. Names, titles, places and workshop identities had reputational value, and by the later periods it becomes difficult not to see something approaching branding in places such as Osafune. Looking at signature conventions through the economics of sword production could tell us quite a lot about how smiths and workshops functioned. Where I have difficulty is with the next step: that a place name and date were essentially marketing information telling a prospective customer, “Here is where you can find me, and as of this date I am still alive and taking orders.” That seems to assume a rather modern relationship between producer and consumer. Were Kamakura-period customers really encountering a Norishige, reading “Etchū,” and then traveling there to commission another one? Some people certainly traveled considerable distances in medieval Japan, but high-level sword production seems more likely to have operated through networks of patronage — warrior houses, temples, retainers, intermediaries and political relationships. The person in a position to commission a Norishige presumably did not need the nakago of somebody else’s sword to tell him where Norishige could be found. I think there is also an important distinction between branding and advertising. “Etchū Saeki Norishige” can assert identity, origin, reputation and perhaps workshop affiliation without functioning as the medieval equivalent of an address. Geographic names in Japanese signatures do not necessarily tell us where the maker could physically be found at the moment the inscription was cut. They can express origin, school identity, lineage or an established professional identity as well. I’m even less persuaded by the explanation for dates. A nengō could record completion, a particular commission, an auspicious occasion, a presentation or votive context, or simply conform to established workshop practice. “I was alive and accepting orders at this date” is certainly one possible interpretation, but what evidence allows us to privilege that explanation over the others? In many cases the person who commissioned the sword presumably already knew perfectly well that the smith was alive. There is another possibility that I think deserves considerably more weight: mei and nengō may also reflect workshop traditions and what amounted to internal identification and record-keeping conventions. Smiths and their workshops were surely conscious of individual makers, generations, succession, changes in names and titles, and different periods within a smith’s working life. In a workshop containing masters, sons, brothers, disciples and assistants — sometimes using related or inherited names — signatures could help distinguish who made what, while dates established when it was made. That information would remain useful long after the original transaction as swords passed between owners or remained within warrior or temple inventories. In other words, we shouldn’t assume that every piece of information on the nakago was directed outward toward attracting the next customer. Some of it may simply represent the workshop’s own conventions for identifying, differentiating and situating its products, as well as the smith’s perfectly natural awareness of his own work over time. The fact that nengō are so valuable today for distinguishing phases of a smith’s career, generations and changes in workmanship may not be merely an accidental benefit to modern students. The people making, ordering and handling these swords were surely aware of chronology too. The same problem arises with some of the proposed corollaries. Nijimei can be explained as evidence of a reputation sufficiently broad that geographic identification was unnecessary, but couldn’t one construct the opposite hypothesis just as easily? A sword intended to travel farther from its place of manufacture might require more identifying information, not less. Likewise, I don’t think ubu mumei can safely be equated with salaried or internally consumed production without considerably more evidence. Different schools and workshops may simply have had different signing traditions, just as they developed different conventions regarding nakago, yasurime, mei placement and other features. This is where I think the theory risks becoming difficult to falsify. Nagamei means the smith was advertising where to find him; nijimei means his reputation traveled far enough that he didn’t need to; mumei means the intended customer already knew who made it; a date means he was advertising that he was still alive; absence of a date means that information wasn’t necessary. If every possible signature convention can be accommodated by the model after the fact, we need some independent evidence before we can know whether the model is actually explaining the phenomenon. So, I wouldn’t dismiss the underlying idea at all. In fact, I think the strongest version of it is fascinating: mei should be studied as evidence for the economic and institutional organization of sword production, rather than merely as signatures. That potentially tells us something about workshop structure, patronage, reputation, geographic identity, succession and market reach. I’m just not convinced we can make the further leap from “mei had economic and reputational functions” to “nagamei and dates were essentially customer-acquisition tools.” And that makes me particularly cautious about using the theory to reject the Shōō 2 reading. If the reading is philologically, historically or oshigata-wise problematic, that’s one thing. But rejecting it because “Etchū” would have been an anti-signal while Norishige was supposedly working in Kamakura seems to require the economic model to be true before using the inscription as evidence that the model is true. There is a danger of circular reasoning there. It’s a very interesting hypothesis, though, and I think there is a way to test it. Take a substantial body of dated and geographically signed blades from smiths whose movements, patrons and working locations can be independently established from contemporary records, and then ask whether changes in their mei actually correlate with changes in location, patronage and intended market. If those patterns consistently line up, then there may be something much more substantial here than an elegant economic theory.

Nicholas is a great guy and a pleasure to do business with!

Woo-hoo! Very few of these stories have a happy ending these days. Count yourself blessed!

You do occasionally find Sue Bizen works with mitsu and even maru mune. They were almost certainly custom order requests or were done on a work forged for some important event. They are not common but not unknown either. Often they are associated with other "upgrades" like horimono, or extended length. (Stubby nakago katateuchi were the standard of the day.) Congrats!

Not on Facebook, but I am in.

Thanks to all who came to the Orlando Sword Show this year! It was a great show, full of warmth and fun. Exhibition was terrific and the attendees were wonderful got to meet Sam and a few other people I only know by their names and posts here! So nice! Hope to see more of you next year!!!

Amazing achievement. Congrats

I have a very good friend and serious collector who shall remain nameless. He loves attending the various shinsa in Chicago, Tampa, Orlando and San Francisco. His favorite spot was outside the shinsa room where he would wait for the inevitable angry, disappointed collectors emerging with pink slips or attributions they didn't like. He would commiserate with them over the results, sympathize with their frustration, and then, more often than not, buy their swords and fittings from them for peanuts since they couldn't wait to be rid of their "failures." They walked away happy that they bumped into a "sucker" stupid enough to buy their "garbage." At least three Jūyō swords my friend owns today came from those very rejects. Other pieces received attributions to major names after a good polish. It just goes to show that not all shinsa are created equal, that a mei rejection is not necessarily the end of the story, and that one person's disappointment can become another person's opportunity—especially when that person knows what he is looking at. Knowledge truly is power. It also illustrates nicely the point I was making earlier: the blade itself did not change. Nothing about the workmanship, condition, or history was altered by the result. What changed was the owner's perception of the blade once it failed shinsa. For some, that shift in perception can be powerful enough to sever the emotional connection they once had with the piece. For others, it just creates the opportunity to acquire something exceptional at a fraction of its true value.

Rohan, I agree with you, but only up to a point. While papers or designations don't change the steel or workmanship of a sword, what they can—and often do—change is our perception of the blade. When a sword that you hope will receive higher papers does, you are elated, feel proud or vindicated, and often develop a deeper connection to it, even though nothing has really changed about the piece other than the certificate that accompanies it. And when it doesn't happen, that emotional connection can be affected, sometimes profoundly. Darcy once told me that people would often get rid of blades after a failed Jūyō submission because, in the owner's mind, somehow the sword was no longer worthy of the same love, admiration, or ownership. I used to say that the only reason to pursue higher papers was to make a future sale or trade easier, or to leave your family something concrete and understandable when you eventually pop your clogs. But the truth is that collectors often behave exactly as Darcy described. And I get it. Collecting—and perhaps hoarding as well—are deeply human traits. Humans crave certainty. We want our choices validated. We want our judgment recognized and rewarded. When that happens, it strengthens our attachment to the object. When it doesn't, it can alter our relationship with it, even when logic tells us nothing has changed. I think the Buddha spent a great deal of time teaching that suffering is rooted in attachment and expectation. That may not make rational sense in the context of a sword that remains exactly the same before and after the shinsa results arrive, but it is what it is. We become attached not only to the object itself, but also to the story we tell ourselves about it and the hope that others will validate that story. Human nature being what it is, that attachment can be every bit as powerful as the sword itself.

Jussi, while I don't know the story about Katsumitsu fleeing the village, what is clear is that by 1560, the situation in Osafune had changed considerably. The glory days of the Katsumitsu line were already in the past. The atelier appears to have been much smaller than it had been during the time of Ukyo no Suke Katsumitsu and Sakyo no Shin Munemitsu, and it was operating alongside a number of related Osafune branches, particularly the descendants of Jirobei Harumitsu, the second son of Jirozaemon no Jō Katsumitsu. The Harumitsu branch seems to have specialized in higher-quality and often more individual commissions, producing many tantō and the occasional longer uchigatana. Also, by the Eiroku era, the economics of sword production had shifted dramatically. Demand generated by the Sengoku wars encouraged the large-scale manufacture of kazuuchimono, and the principal beneficiaries of that market were the Kiyomitsu and Sukesada groups. These two houses grew into the dominant producers in Osafune, overshadowing many of the older family lines in both size and output. At the same time, Bizen's political landscape was also changing. Since the death of Akamatsu Masanori, the province had been dominated by the Uragami clan, who were also big patrons of the Katsumitsu. But by the mid-sixteenth century the Uragami were weakened by internal divisions and increasingly dependent upon their powerful retainer, Ukita Naoie. During the 1560s, Naoie expanded his influence while maintaining a nominal loyalty to his lords, eventually emerging as the effective ruler of Bizen. Such political and economic upheavals almost certainly affected the fortunes of the Katsumitsu line, as they did many other Osafune families. Against that backdrop, the placement of Kiyomitsu's name before Katsumitsu's becomes easier to understand. Whether the order reflects seniority, prestige, commercial influence, or simply the circumstances of the commission cannot be known with certainty. However, by the Eiroku period the Kiyomitsu workshops were among the most prominent and productive in Osafune, while the Katsumitsu line no longer occupied the commanding position it had enjoyed a century earlier. On the issue of Katsumits fleeing the village, I have not seen and can't find anything to support this, but I guess it's possible. The documentary record for many late-Bizen smiths is fragmentary and not all of it is available online. What is striking,though, is that when the Yoshii River flood of 1590 devastated Osafune and effectively brought the great Bizen tradition to an end, the powerful Kiyomitsu line disappeared from history. Among the few branches that survived were members of the Sukesada line and descendants of the Harumitsu branch. In that sense, although the Katsumitsu family had long since lost its former prominence, its bloodline appears to have been among the last remnants of the classical Osafune tradition.

It's looking promising! Fingers crossed!!!!

Kosho (1455-57)! That would mean that Munemitsu, if born in 1436/37, was somewhere between 18 to 21 when this was made. It's not impossible, but more likely this is by the 4th generation whose working period is listed as 1444-1449. Markus' A-Z of Japanese Sword smiths says the earliest known signature for Sakyo no Shin is 1469, but we are constantly seeing pieces coming out of the woodwork that are upending those dates. The work looks nice as and you can see the transition moving to Sue Bizen. I like it! What are the dimensions of the blade?

Thank you again for all the great feedback. And absolutely, Lewis, the practice was not uncommon heading into the Muromachi to inscribe more information on nakago, including patrons, places and even prayers. Here's an example of the later (again by Ukyo no Suke Katsumitsu) on the mune of a tanto: https://sanmei.com/contents/media/T2174_T5010_PUP_E.html Also interesting is the practice of gassaku with other Bizen smiths outside their immediate circle seemed to be a thing for a while around the late Meio and Eisho eras. There is one on the market now between Tadamitsu and Muneumitsu: https://sanmei.com/contents/media/T2174_T5010_PUP_E.html. But there are even earlier ones with Norimitsu. Then of course, there is the famous Tokubestu Juyo nagainata jointly made by Jirozaemon no Jo Katsumitsu and the Shodai Yosozaemon Sukesada below. Interesting work in Bizen between Bunmei and Daei in particular but it carried forward by others like Kiyomitsu as you pointed out.