To call Sharaku a realist is a silly, untruthful attempt to muffle in words forces that one does not understand.
How one longs for one more work from Sharaku's hands—a portrait of himself, seated in the stalls, watching the play at its height!
His series of standing women against chocolate or silver backgrounds rises in colour to the level of Sharaku.
Great distinction of composition marks all of Sharaku's work.
It is rhetoric, not the profound and tragic poetry of Sharaku, nor the subtle and decadent lyric strain of Utamaro.
