An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  Eventually we came to a kind of yard where a crowd of shanty huts closed off the way ahead. But Matsuda pointed to a gap between two of the huts through which was visible an open piece of wasteground.

  ‘If we cut across there,’ he said, ‘we’ll come up behind Kogane Street.’

  Near the entrance of the passage Matsuda had indicated, I noticed three small boys bowed over something on the ground, prodding at it with sticks. As we approached, they spun round with scowls on their faces and although I saw nothing, something in their manner told me they were torturing some animal. Matsuda must have drawn the same conclusion, for he said to me as we walked past: ‘Well, they have little else to amuse themselves with around here.’

  I gave those boys little further thought at the time. Then some days later, that image of the three of them, turning towards us with scowls on their faces, brandishing their sticks, standing there amidst all that squalor, returned to me with some vividness, and I used it as the central image of ‘Complacency’. But I might point out that when the Tortoise stole a look at my unfinished painting that morning, the three boys he saw would have differed from their models in one or two important respects. For although they still stood in front of a squalid shanty hut, and their clothes were the same rags the original boys wore, the scowls on their faces would not have been guilty, defensive scowls of little criminals caught in the act; rather, they would have worn the manly scowls of samurai warriors ready to fight. It is no coincidence, furthermore, that the boys in my picture held their sticks in classic kendo stances.

  Above the heads of these three boys, the Tortoise would have seen the painting fading into a second image – that of three fat, well-dressed men, sitting in a comfortable bar laughing together. The looks on their faces seem decadent; perhaps they are exchanging jokes about their mistresses or some such matter. These two contrasting images are moulded together within the coastline of the Japanese islands. Down the right-hand margin, in bold red characters, is the word ‘Complacency’; down the left-hand side, in smaller characters, is the declaration: ‘But the young are ready to fight for their dignity.’

  When I describe this early and no doubt unsophisticated work, certain of its features may perhaps strike you as familiar. For it is possible you are acquainted with my painting, ‘Eyes to the Horizon’ which, as a print in the thirties, achieved a certain fame and influence throughout this city. ‘Eyes to the Horizon’ was indeed a reworking of ‘Complacency’, though with such differences as might be expected given the passage of years between the two. The later painting, you may recall, also employed two contrasting images merging into one another, bound by the coastline of Japan; the upper image was again that of three well-dressed men conferring, but this time they wore nervous expressions, looking to each other for initiative. And these faces, I need not remind you, resembled those of three prominent politicians. For the lower, more dominant image, the three poverty-stricken boys had become stern-faced soldiers; two of them held bayoneted rifles, flanking an officer who held out his sword, pointing the way forward, west towards Asia. Behind them, there was no longer a backdrop of poverty; simply the military flag of the rising sun. The word ‘Complacency’ down the right-hand margin had been replaced by ‘Eyes to the Horizon!’ and on the left-hand side, the message, ‘No time for cowardly talking. Japan must go forward.’

  Of course, if you are new to this city, it is possible you will not have come across this work. But I do not think it an exaggeration to say that a great many of those living here before the war would be familiar with it, for it did receive much praise at the time for its vigorous brush technique and, particularly, its powerful use of colour. But I am fully aware, of course, that ‘Eyes to the Horizon’, whatever its artistic merits, is a painting whose sentiments are now outdated. Indeed, I would be the first to admit that those same sentiments are perhaps worthy of condemnation. I am not one of those who are afraid to admit to the shortcomings of past achievements.

  But I did not wish to discuss ‘Eyes to the Horizon’. I mention it here only because of its obvious relationship to that earlier painting, and I suppose, to acknowledge the impact my meeting Matsuda had on my subsequent career. I had begun to see Matsuda regularly some weeks prior to that morning in the kitchen when the Tortoise had made his discovery. It is, I suppose, a measure of the appeal his ideas had for me that I continued to meet him, for as I recall, I did not at first take much of a liking to him. Indeed, most of our earlier meetings would end with our becoming extremely antagonistic towards one another. I remember one evening, for instance, not long after that day I followed him throughthe poverty of Nishizuru, going with him to a bar somewhere in the city centre. I do not recall the name or the whereabouts of the bar, but I remember it vividly as a dark, dirty place, frequented by what looked to be the city’s low life. I felt apprehensive as soon as I walked in, but Matsuda seemed to be familiar with the place, saluting to some men playing cards around a table, before leading me to an alcove containing a small, unoccupied table.

  My apprehension was not eased when shortly after we had sat down, two rough-looking men, both fairly drunk, came staggering into the alcove, wishing to engage us in conversation. Matsuda told them quite flatly to go away, and I fully expected trouble, but something about my companion seemed to unnerve the men, and they left us without comment.

  After that, we sat drinking and conversing for some time, and before long, I recall, our exchanges had become abrasive. At one point I remember saying to him:

  ‘No doubt, we artists may at times deserve mockery from the likes of you. But I’m afraid you’re mistaken in assuming we’re all so naive about the world.’

  Matsuda laughed and said:

  ‘But you must remember, Ono, I come across many artists. You are on the whole an astonishingly decadent crowd. Often with no more than a child’s knowledge of the affairs of this world.’

  I was about to protest, but Matsuda continued: ‘Take for instance, Ono, this scheme of yours. The one you were proposing so earnestly just now. It’s very touching, but if I may say so, displays all the naïveté typical of you artists.’

  ‘I fail to see why my idea is so worthy of your mockery. But then I obviously made a mistake in assuming you felt concern for the poor of this city.’

  ‘No need for such childish jibes. You know very well my concern. But let’s consider your little scheme for a moment. Let’s suppose the unlikely occurs and your teacher is sympathetic. So then all of you at your villa will spend a week, perhaps two, producing – what? – twenty paintings? Thirty at the most. There seems little point in producing more, you won’t sell more than ten or eleven in any case. What will you do then, Ono? Wander the poor areas of this city with a little purse of coins you’ve raised from all this hard work? Give a sen to each poor person you meet?’

  ‘Forgive me, Matsuda, but I must repeat – you’re quite wrong to assume me so naïve. I wasn’t for a moment suggesting the exhibition be confined simply to Mori-san’s group. I’m fully aware of the scale of the poverty we’re seeking to alleviate, and this is why I’m coming to you with this suggestion. Your Okada-Shingen Society is ably placed to develop such a scheme. Large exhibitions held regularly throughout the city, attracting ever more artists, would bring significant relief to these people.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ono,’ Matsuda said, smiling and shaking his head, ‘but I fear I was correct in my assumption after all. As a breed, you artists are desperately naïve.’ He leaned back in his seat and gave a sigh. The surface of our table was covered in cigarette ash and Matsuda was thoughtfully sweeping patterns in it with the edge of an empty matchbox left by previous occupants. ‘There’s a certain kind of artist these days,’ he went on, ‘whose greatest talent lies in hiding away from the real world. Unfortunately, such artists appear to be in dominance at present, and you, Ono, have come under the sway of one of them. Don’t look so angry, it’s true. Your knowledge of the world is like a child’s. I doubt, for instance, if you could even
tell me who Karl Marx was.’

  I gave him what must have been a sulky look, but said nothing. He gave a laugh and said: ‘You see? But don’t be too upset. Most of your colleagues know no better.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I know of Karl Marx.’

  ‘Why, I’m sorry, Ono. Perhaps I did underestimate you. Please, tell me about Marx.’

  I shrugged and said: ‘I believe he led the Russian revolution.’

  ‘Then what about Lenin, Ono? Was he perhaps Marx’s second-in-command?’

  ‘A colleague of some kind.’ I saw Matsuda was grinning again, and so said quickly, before he could speak: ‘In any case, you’re being preposterous. These are the concerns of some far-away country. I’m talking about the poor here in our own city.’

  ‘Indeed, Ono, indeed. But there again, you see, you know very little about anything. You were quite correct in assuming the Okada-Shingen Society was concerned to wake up artists and introduce them to the real world. But I have misled you if I ever suggested our society wished to be turned into a large begging bowl. We’re not interested in charity.’

  ‘I fail to see what there is to object to in a little charity. And if at the same time it opens the eyes of us decadent artists, then so much the better, I would have thought.’

  ‘Your eyes are indeed far from open, Ono, if you believe a little good-hearted charity can help the poor of our country. The truth is, Japan is headed for crisis. We are in the hands of greedy businessmen and weak politicians. Such people will see to it poverty grows every day. Unless, that is, we, the emerging generation, take action. But I’m no political agitator, Ono. My concern is with art. And with artists like you. Talented young artists, not yet irreversibly blinkered by that enclosed little world you all inhabit. The Okada-Shingen exists to help the likes of you open your eyes and produce work of genuine value for these difficult times.’

  ‘Forgive me, Matsuda, but it strikes me it’s you who are in fact the naive one. An artist’s concern is to capture beauty wherever he finds it. But however skilfully he may come to do this, he will have little influence on the sort of matters you talk of. Indeed, if the Okada-Shingen is as you claim it is, then it seems to me ill-conceived indeed. It seems to be founded on a naive mistake about what art can and cannot do.’

  ‘You know full well, Ono, we do not see things so simply. The fact is, the Okada-Shingen does not exist in isolation. There are young men like us in all walks of life – in politics, in the military – who think the same way. We are the emerging generation. Together, it is within our capability to achieve something of real value. It just so happens that some of us care deeply about art and wish to see it responding to the world of today. The truth is, Ono, in times like these, when people are getting poorer, and children are growing more hungry and sick all around you, it is simply not enough for an artist to hide away somewhere, perfecting pictures of courtesans. I can see you’re angry with me, and even now you’re searching for some way to come back at me. But I mean well, Ono. I hope later on you’ll think carefully about these things. For you, above all, are someone of immense talent.’

  ‘Well, do tell me then, Matsuda. How can we decadent foolish artists help bring about your political revolution?’

  To my annoyance, Matsuda was once more smiling disparagingly across the table. ‘Revolution? Really, Ono! The communists want a revolution. We want nothing of the sort. Quite the opposite, in fact. We wish for a restoration. We simply ask that his Imperial Majesty the Emperor be restored to his rightful place as head of our state.’

  ‘But our Emperor is precisely that already.’

  ‘Really, Ono. So naive and confused.’ His voice, though it remained, as ever, perfectly calm, seemed at this point to grow harder. ‘Our Emperor is our rightful leader, and yet what in reality has become of things? Power has been grasped from him by these businessmen and their politicians. Listen, Ono, Japan is no longer a backward country of peasant farmers. We are now a mighty nation, capable of matching any of the Western nations. In the Asian hemisphere, Japan stands like a giant amidst cripples and dwarfs. And yet we allow our people to grow more and more desperate, our little children to die of malnutrition. Meanwhile, the businessmen get richer and the politicians forever make excuses and chatter. Can you imagine any of the Western powers allowing such a situation? They would surely have taken action long ago.’

  ‘Action? What sort of action do you refer to, Matsuda?’

  ‘It’s time for us to forge an empire as powerful and wealthy as those of the British and the French. We must use our strength to expand abroad. The time is now well due for Japan to take her rightful place amongst the world powers. Believe me, Ono, we have the means to do so, but have yet to discover the will. And we must rid ourselves of these businessmen and politicians. Then the military will be answerable only to his Imperial Majesty the Emperor.’ Then he gave a small laugh and turned his gaze back down to the patterns he was weaving in the cigarette ash. ‘But this is largely for others to worry over,’ he said. ‘The likes of us, Ono, we must concern ourselves with art.’

  It is my belief, though, that the reason for the Tortoise’s upset in the disused kitchen two or three weeks later had not so much to do with these issues I discussed with Matsuda that night; the Tortoise would not have had the perception to have seen so far into that unfinished painting of mine. All he would have recognized was that it represented a blatant disregard for Mori-san’s priorities; abandoned had been the school’s collective endeavour to capture the fragile lantern light of the pleasure world; bold calligraphy had been introduced to complement the visual impact; and above all, no doubt, the Tortoise would have been shocked to observe that my technique made extensive use of the hard outline – a traditional enough method, as you will know, but one whose rejection was fundamental to Mori-san’s teaching.

  Whatever the reasons for his outrage, I knew after that morning I could no longer hide my rapidly developing ideas from those around me, and that it was only a matter of time before our teacher himself came to hear of it all. Thus, by the time I had that conversation with Mori-san inside the pavilion at Takami Gardens, I had turned over in my mind many times what I might say to him, and was firmly resolved not to let myself down.

  It was a week or so after that morning in the kitchen. Mori-san and I had spent the afternoon in the city on some errand – perhaps to select and order our materials, I do not remember. What I do recall is that as we went about our business, Mori-san did not behave in any way oddly towards me. Then, with the evening drawing in, finding ourselves with a little time before our train, we climbed the steep steps behind Yotsugawa Station up to the Takami Gardens.

  In those days there stood up on Takami Gardens a most pleasing pavilion, just on the rim of the hill overlooking the area – not far, in fact, from where the peace memorial stands today. The most noticeably attractive feature of the pavilion was the way the eaves of its elegant roof were hung all the way round with lanterns – although on that particular night, as I recall, the lanterns were all unlit as we approached. Stepping in under the roof, the pavilion was as spacious as a large room, but since it was not enclosed on any side, only the arched posts supporting the roof broke one’s view out over the district below.

  Quite possibly, that evening with Mori-san was the occasion I first discovered that pavilion. It was to remain a favourite spot for me over the years, until it was eventually destroyed during the war, and I often took my own pupils there whenever we happened to be passing that way. Indeed, I believe it was in that same pavilion, just before the start of the war, that I was to have my last conversation with Kuroda, the most gifted of my pupils.

  In any case, that first evening I followed Mori-san inside it, I recall the sky had become a pale crimson colour and lights were coming on amidst the muddle of roofs still visible down below in the gloom. Mori-san took a few further steps towards the view, then leaning a shoulder against a post, looked up at the sky with some satisfaction and said with
out turning to me:

  ‘Ono, there are some matches and tapers in our kerchief. Kindly light these lanterns. The effect, I imagine, will be most interesting.’

  As I made my way around the pavilion, lighting lantern after lantern, the gardens around us, which had become still and silent, steadily faded into darkness. All the while, I continued to glance towards the silhouette of Mori-san outlined against the sky, gazing out thoughtfully at the view. I had lit perhaps half of the lanterns when I heard him say:

  ‘So then, Ono, what is this matter troubling you so much?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sensei?’

  ‘You mentioned earlier today, there was something troubling you.’

  I gave a small laugh as I reached up towards a lantern.

  ‘Just a small thing, Sensei. I wouldn’t bother Sensei with it, but then I am not sure what to make of it. The fact is, two days ago, I discovered that certain of my paintings had been removed from where I always store them in the old kitchen.’

  Mori-san remained silent for a moment. Then he said:

  ‘And what did the others have to say about this?’

  ‘I asked them, but no one seemed to know anything. Or at least, no one seemed willing to tell me.’

  ‘So what did you conclude, Ono? Is there some conspiracy against you?’