The Mask Carver's Son

by Alyson Richman

  He bowed graciously and left me to my new surroundings. I walked over the tatami and slid open the closet and removed the futon. I was tired and needed to rest.

  There was something eternal about the room. Although my first glimpses of Tokyo years ago seemed foreign, here, in a room never before visited, I felt at home. The crisp smell of the tatami was refreshing to my senses. The diffused light of the shoji was soft and easy on my eyes.

  The next morning, after I had returned from my bath and eaten my breakfast, I paid a young boy to deliver a message to Noboru.

  “I have returned,” I wrote, “and I look forward to our meeting. Please visit me soon. It has been a long time.”

  I wrote my address at the bottom of the piece of rice paper, folded it neatly into a triangle, and pressed two silver coins into the boy’s hand.

  “Go quickly and with care,” I called after him.

  I slid open the latch to the gate and walked up the narrow stairs to my quarters. I wrote a letter to Sakamoto, the gallery owner who had mounted Kuroda’s first exhibition in Tokyo, inquiring if he was interested in seeing my work.

  That evening, as I was resting in my yukata, Suga called for me.

  “Yamamoto-san,” he hollered, “you have two visitors who await your company.”

  Who could they be? I thought to myself. It would be a tremendous coincidence if Sakamoto and Noboru had arrived together.

  I stood up, smoothed out the creases in my robe, and walked downstairs to greet my guests.

  Noboru and a young gentleman in his early twenties were standing in the genkan, dressed in formal suits. Both had their hair parted and oiled, both had mustaches, and both had foulards billowing over their stiff white collars.

  I knew the other gentleman was not Sakamoto, the gallery owner. He seemed far too young. He had the cool, unblemished, unspoiled beauty that only the very young can have. For the first time in recent memory, I found myself envious. The same sort of jealousy I had as a young boy, watching my father surrounded by his beautiful, pristine masks.

  Noboru extended his hands into the air. I stood on the steps looking down.

  “My friend Yamamoto Kiyoki, it has been such a long time!”

  I remained speechless. He noticed that my gaze was directed not at him but rather at his young friend.

  “Forgive me for my rudeness. This is my friend Matsushima Noriyuki. We are both students of Kuroda Seiki.”

  He had chosen not to greet me alone, an action far more powerful than any words could be.

  I gathered my emotions. “Would the two of you care for some tea in my room?” I motioned to the dimly lit hallway above my head.

  Noboru turned to his friend, and they both nodded in agreement.

  “That sounds very good, if it is no trouble to you. You must still be very tired from your journey.”

  “I am fine,” I assured him. “Please, it is just up here.” They followed me up the stairs and into my room.

  As they settled into the room, I reached for the boiling kettle on the brazier and began preparing the tea. It had been a long time since I had prepared o-cha, and I tried to disguise my unease.

  “We drink coffee too!” Matsushima chimed proudly.

  “Yes,” Noboru agreed. “It has become somewhat popular here.”

  “I regret that I have no coffee to offer you. Suga has only provided me with tea.”

  “That is fine, my old friend,” Noboru said with a laugh. “I have come because I want to see you and be the first to hear of your travels, not for your drinks.”

  He was not wearing his navy kimono, as I had imagined him.

  Age had not yet arrived on his face. His skin was still smooth, his complexion still pale. I raised my head as I poured the steaming tea. Viewing him through the clouds of vapor reminded me of the days we spent envisioning our lives abroad over a pot of shared tea. Those days now seemed to be from another lifetime. And I felt my heart ticking inside my chest, as if viewing the demise of our friendship from the outside, the distance between us now seeming far greater than the span of water I had traveled on my return.

  Noboru broke the silence. “Do you have any samples of your work here, or are they arriving with your luggage?” he asked.

  “I have brought some of my canvases and one sketchbook. The canvases are rolled up, but I will show them to you. I am hoping to meet Sakamoto soon to see if he is interested in exhibiting my work.”

  “Sakamoto, eh?” Noboru raised his brows. “He has a respectable gallery. Isn’t that where Kuroda had his first show?”

  “I believe it is,” I said.

  “I’m sure he’ll be interested. He is always looking for the next Kuroda.” Then he added, “Now let us see those canvases!” His tone seeming almost wolfish.

  I did not want to appear secretive, so I excused myself and retrieved my work. Grateful for the opportunity to compose myself, I spent several minutes hunched behind a folding screen rummaging through some satchels.

  I returned to the main tatami room with two still lifes and three self-portraits. Whereas my earlier work had been influenced by the Impressionists, for the most part, my later work was far darker in its palette, angrier in its tone, and fiercer in its brushwork. They were somber but passionate paintings, born from my pain and isolation, the images resurrected from my experience.

  Noboru leaned over each canvas as I rolled them out on the tatami floor. He squinted and pushed his face close to each work in order to examine the brushwork more closely.

  “Is the still life of the fruit your earlier work?” he asked.

  “Yes. Is it that apparent?”

  “Well,” Noboru said slowly, “the Japanese usually prefer a lighter palette. The public seems to have a penchant for subtle color and subdued brushstroke. Your work seems fierce. Angrier than your normal temperament. I must say, I’m a bit surprised.” I could tell from the way that he carefully chose his words that he was trying to disguise his distaste for my work.

  Raising his head, he added, “But what do I know, Yamamoto? I am confident that Sakamoto will pick what he thinks is best.

  “Is this the painting, The Fairy Faun, from this past year’s Salon?” he asked as he picked up the canvas that lay in the far corner of the room.

  “Yes, it is,” I said quietly.

  “The model is most beguiling. Her face seems almost a combination of the sexes. She has the defiant eyes of a man and the delicate features of a woman.” He paused. “Such a splendid creature!”

  I nodded in agreement while looking at his friend, Matsushima, whose face was beautiful but as blank as a water-washed stone.

  I knew that I looked at Matsushima coldly, as though looking at myself ten years ago, and I was filled with disgust.

  “What have you been doing lately?” I asked Noboru in a tone I would have used to address someone only slightly more familiar than a stranger.

  “Well, after I complete my final works for Kuroda next week, I plan to start an atelier of my own. The students who are not accepted at the Tokyo School of Fine Arts will need a place to learn Western technique. The demand for instructors is actually quite high. You might consider it.”

  I knew that the income from such instruction was quite good, but I still had dreams of supporting myself purely from my own craft. Much as Father had from his. I would prove to everyone that I was capable and talented enough to achieve such a feat!

  “I will have to see what opportunities unfold for me, now that I have returned,” I said as I rolled up my canvases and returned them to the closet.

  “Well, I hope all works out well with you and Sakamoto,” Noboru said as he stood up abruptly, the young Matsushima mimicking him like a puppet. “Please forgive us for our rudeness, but we must be going. I am sure you are quite tired as well.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, somewhat eagerly. “Bu
t it was good of you to come.”

  I saw the two of them to the gate, and I felt as if I had all of a sudden switched places with my father in my memory. I was now the one standing outside the genkan. Standing there alone. The one betrayed.

  * * *

  Sakamoto sent a letter requesting I visit him at his gallery three days later. I gathered my portfolio and set out to meet with him.

  His gallery was near the Ginza, on the first floor on an exclusive street.

  “You must be Yamamoto Kiyoki,” he said, greeting me at his door. “Please come in.” He was wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a black bow tie. A black bowler hat was resting on a bamboo table in the genkan.

  I slid off my shoes and bowed deeply.

  “Please, Yamamoto-san, please come in!”

  The building’s traditional dark wooden outside was in sharp contrast with the brightly illuminated interior. Asai Chu’s Fields in Spring, among other paintings, hung on the wall.

  “Would you like some tea?” he offered.

  “I am fine, thank you.”

  “I received your letter and am quite interested to see your work. Did you bring samples from your portfolio?” He began clearing his desk.

  “Yes,” I said, unrolling them onto the desk’s wooden surface.

  He spent several minutes on each one. He nodded his head up and down. He looked closely and then stepped away in order to gaze from a distance.

  “I have never seen anything quite like these,” he said, pointing to my three self-portraits. Indeed, they were dark and serious portrayals of me. I had sought inspiration from the works of Rembrandt, but chose to reinterpret his style. I preserved the same black monochrome background, scumbled the pigment, and infused an ample amount of varnish. But when I painted myself, I used a thick, coarse brush and avoided the smooth, delicate lines of the old master style, and I opted for more frenzied, almost kinetic ones. I painted myself in a kimono. I also painted myself in a suit and tie. I wanted to convey that my experience had transformed me into a chameleon. But my favorite painting remained Self-Portrait in Violet.

  Sakamoto looked over my work with narrowed eyes. Eyes permanently squinting from countless years of scrutiny, his skin crinkling over his bones like burned paper.

  I watched as he extended his forefinger and traced the movements of my brush, the traces of fibers fossilized in the bright spread of pigment.

  “I have never seen anything like your work, Yamamoto, but it bodes well for you that one of your paintings was exhibited in last year’s Salon,” he said as his eyes skimmed each canvas. “Only time will tell if Japan is ready.” He sighed.

  He was brave enough to take a chance on me. “I have shown Kuroda Seiki, Asai Chu, Fujita Tsuguharu, Fujishima Takeji, and I will show you, Yamamoto Kiyoki, too.” He looked at me with his cautious gaze. “But I will show you only once. The rest is for the public to decide.”

  * * *

  We scheduled my debut exhibition for July, nearly two months for me to prepare my work. It would be a grand affair, Sakamoto promised. All the art critics would attend, as well as all the accomplished and accepted painters of the day. The pressure was great and I worked day and night in order to complete new canvases to complement the portfolio I had brought with me from France.

  Sakamoto arranged studio space for me outside the gates of the Tokyo School of Fine Arts, in an old apartment where the rent was cheap and the tatami worn from age.

  Noboru visited me occasionally, sometimes bringing a box of sweets or a canister of tea. It would always break my heart when he arrived. The reality of our friendship, its superficiality and the distance between us, was often too much to bear. My memory of the past was still grasped tight between my palms, like the sable brush that had once belonged to him that I held dear.

  He would walk behind me and look at my canvas, illuminated in the afternoon sun. He would not speak, and neither would I. But I knew that what he saw before him was something he did not understand. Perhaps it was my anger that scared him. Perhaps it was something as shallow as the palette I chose. All I know is that, on the night of my exhibition, he did not acknowledge me. He stood in a corner meeting everyone’s eyes but mine.

  * * *

  The exhibition was a disaster from the outset. I awakened the morning of my debut to dark clouds and rain. Who would even come? I wondered as I prepared a bowl of tea. Outside, the torrents transformed the streets into muddy rivers and the rice-paper windows became thick and opaque.

  I arrived at Sakamoto’s gallery early, in order to make sure my paintings were installed to my liking and that the program had been printed with the correct information.

  “The canvases are far too close to each other!” I protested.

  “That’s the way we do it here in Japan,” Sakamoto replied curtly.

  “But they are on top of each other, each bleeding into the next!”

  It was not at all how I imagined them displayed.

  “Let me do my job, as I have allowed you to do yours,” he said as he turned his back on me and returned to his low, paulownia wood desk. “I will see you at eight o’clock.”

  I chose to wear my black kimono, embroidered with Grandmother’s crest, for I believed it was the finest thing that I owned. Believing the critics and collectors would also come in kimonos, I never thought twice about my selection. I stepped into the hooded rickshaw, shielding myself from the rain with a parasol, and made my way once again to the gallery.

  I arrived only to discover a group of critics had already gathered around several of my paintings. They had chosen to wear Western dress. Black coats and crisp white shirts punctuated the room like a long line of dominoes. And I, the Japanese artist who had just returned from Paris, slumped shyly in the corner, my silk kimono hanging from my shoulders like a shroud.

  Their distaste for my work was apparent. They scrunched up their noses and shook their heads with confusion. They took off their glasses and wiped them clean.

  I should be fair when I tell you that Sakamoto did try to introduce me, and promote me, as he had promised. He came over and tried to impress upon the guests that I was an ambassador of the new French style. “See the passion of his paintings,” he said to one critic who pressed his face close to the canvas and then simply responded with a shrug. “And his use of color and texture. It is the influence of the Impressionists, you see.” But no one seemed to care.

  The weeks that followed were the cruelest. Every newspaper, magazine, and art journal in Japan seemed to have something unfavorable to say about my work. They said my paintings were “renditions of the grotesque” or “the work of a madman.” They speculated that I had suffered some sort of dementia while I was abroad, and prided themselves on having the sense not to be fooled into believing that my work was art. Even The Fairy Faun did not catch their fancy. The critics condemned it as odd and disarming—a mythological creature that they could not understand.

  The moment my work was unveiled to their eyes, my career as an artist in Japan was ruined before it even began.

  No art academy would have me as a professor. No private student would seek me as an instructor. Yet what destroyed me the most was not the reaction of the critics, collectors, and journalists who were responsible for my fate; it was Noboru’s response.

  He had paced through the gallery with his eyes averted. Hovering in a corner when I was with Sakamoto. Lost in the crowds when I was alone. But always with his eyes cast down and his back slightly turned.

  Noboru visited me shortly after my disastrous exhibition. I had read in the paper that day that he had just been awarded the first prize at Japan’s yearly salon, the National Bunten, that year. He did not, however, mention it when he arrived.

  He came into my room, the faint traces of diluted turpentine permeating his coat. I greeted him in my cotton yukata. I had not changed out of it since the exhibition. Two w
eeks had since passed and I had yet to shave or comb my hair.

  “Good afternoon, Yamamoto,” he chimed, and I think he fell into surprise, seeing me in such a wretched state.

  I grumbled my greeting to him and let him find his way past the pillows and unmade futon, to a square of exposed tatami.

  “You may sit down,” I muttered from where I stood. My back was now turned to him, my head faced the blurred rice-paper window.

  “I am sorry this is the first chance I have had to visit you alone,” he said apologetically. There was kindness in his voice. But there was anger in mine.

  “You greet me now when we are alone, but avoid me at galleries.”

  “I thought it best under the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances! What circumstances?” I cried as I whirled back from the window. “Does one not greet the artist whose exhibition it is? Let alone, one who is your friend?”

  I glared at him. My eyes, wet from too little sleep and too much sake, fell upon him like sharpened claws.

  “I am in a difficult position here. Can you not see? I am trying to make a name for myself and earn a living. We all can’t be pure as you, Kiyoki!”

  And the irony of my name once again besieged me.

  “I have always been envious of you, Yamamoto Kiyoki.” This time his voice was even softer, as if he needed to whisper these sentiments that he had kept hidden within himself for so many years.

  “When you left for Paris, I knew that you would experience things I never would have had the opportunity to gather. That you would see things and meet people to whom I would never be exposed.” His eyes fell to the floor. “Can you not pity me? My work is far emptier than yours. Merely a patchwork of soft colors and imagined light.”

  I looked at my friend. The one that I remembered from long ago had finally returned.

  “You paint for yourself, and I paint for them,” he said. “I may have money and security, but you have purity of the soul. As painful as that may be now, as the years go by, you will be the one who is remembered.”