I don't konw in the following article, "a chicken" means a little chick or a rooster?
Once upon a time there was a Shogun who wanted a nice picture of a chicken to go in his tokonoma.
So, he went to a very fine artist (Hiroshige? Sharaku?) and said, "I want you to paint me the best picture of a chicken that you can."
So, the artist said, "Hai, hai, mochiron, kore o shimasu." (Yes, yes, certainly, I will do this.)
The artist went to his cabin high on Mount Fuji. He brought books of bird anatomy, many studies of birds done by all the famous artists of the past, He sculpted chickens, he painted chickens in oil, he did one woodblock after another of nothing but chickens. He depicted chickens in bushido poses, crashing through the shoji in a samurai palace. He drew noble portraits of chickens in virtuous attitudes. He used a sumie brush to catch every nuance of a chicken's life. He painted chickens in the landscape and in the boudoir, on the battlefield and in the barn.
Ten years passed.
One day the shogun was at archery practice when he thought of his request to the artist. He immediately mounted his steed and made his way to the artist's cabin. It was hard to enter the door. There were sketches of chickens stacked to the ceiling. There were statues of chickens everywhere. There were skeletons of chickens and paintings of chickens. There was nowhere to sit and very little space to stand.
"Where is my chicken drawing?" demanded the Shogun.
"Oh," said the artist, "I forgot, sorry." And he took a brush, whirled it very quickly on a piece of rice paper, handed the paper to the Shogun, and said, "Here."
Once upon a time there was a Shogun who wanted a nice picture of a chicken to go in his tokonoma.
So, he went to a very fine artist (Hiroshige? Sharaku?) and said, "I want you to paint me the best picture of a chicken that you can."
So, the artist said, "Hai, hai, mochiron, kore o shimasu." (Yes, yes, certainly, I will do this.)
The artist went to his cabin high on Mount Fuji. He brought books of bird anatomy, many studies of birds done by all the famous artists of the past, He sculpted chickens, he painted chickens in oil, he did one woodblock after another of nothing but chickens. He depicted chickens in bushido poses, crashing through the shoji in a samurai palace. He drew noble portraits of chickens in virtuous attitudes. He used a sumie brush to catch every nuance of a chicken's life. He painted chickens in the landscape and in the boudoir, on the battlefield and in the barn.
Ten years passed.
One day the shogun was at archery practice when he thought of his request to the artist. He immediately mounted his steed and made his way to the artist's cabin. It was hard to enter the door. There were sketches of chickens stacked to the ceiling. There were statues of chickens everywhere. There were skeletons of chickens and paintings of chickens. There was nowhere to sit and very little space to stand.
"Where is my chicken drawing?" demanded the Shogun.
"Oh," said the artist, "I forgot, sorry." And he took a brush, whirled it very quickly on a piece of rice paper, handed the paper to the Shogun, and said, "Here."