An Artist of the Floating World (14 page)

around the painting, pointing things out to each other in hushed tones: "And look at the way Sensei has filled in that corner there. Remarkable!" But no one would actually say: "Sensei, what a marvellous painting," for it was somehow the convention of these occasions that we behave as though our teacher were not present. Often a new painting would feature some striking innovation, and a debate of some passion would develop among us. Once, for example, I remember we came into the room to be confronted by a picture of a kneeling woman seen from a peculiarly low point of view--so low that we appeared to be looking up at her from floor level. "Clearly," I remember someone asserting, "the low perspective lends the woman a dignity she would otherwise not have. It is a most astonishing achievement. For in all other respects, she looks a self-pitying sort. It is this tension that gives the painting its subtle power." "This may be so," someone else said. "The woman may well have a sort of dignity, but that hardly derives from the low viewpoint. It seems clear that Sensei is telling us something much more pertinent. He is saying that the perspective appears low only because we have become so attuned to a particular eye level. It is clearly Sensei's desire to liberate us from such arbitrary and confining habits. He's saying to us, "there's no need to always see things from the usual tired angles". This is why this painting is so inspiring." Soon we were all shouting and contradicting each other with our theories about Mori-san's intentions. And although as we argued, we continually stole glances towards our teacher, he gave no indication as to which of our theories he approved of. I recall him simply standing there at the far end of the room, his arms folded, gazing out across the yard through the wood-lattice bars of the window, an amused look on his face. Then, after he had listened to us argue for some time, he turned and said: "Perhaps you"d all leave me now. There arc certain matters I wish to attend to." At which we all filed out of the room, once more muttering our admiration for the new painting. As I recount this I am aware that Mori-san's behaviour may strike you as somewhat arrogant. But it is perhaps easier to understand the aloofness he displayed on such occasions if one has oneself been in a position in which one is constantly looked up to and admired. For it is by no means desirable that one be always instructing and pronouncing to one's pupils; there are many situations when it is preferable to remain silent so as to allow them the chance to debate and ponder. As I say, anyone who has been in a position of large influence will appreciate this. The effect was, in any case, that arguments about our teacher's work could go on for weeks on end. In the continued absence of any explication from Mori-san himself, the tendency was for us to look to one of our number, an artist called Sasaki, who at that point enjoyed the status of being Mori-san's leading pupil. Although as I have said, some arguments could go on a long time, once Sasaki finally made up his mind on a matter, that would usually mark the end of the dispute. Similarly, if Sasaki were to suggest a person's painting was in any way "disloyal" to our teacher, this would almost always lead to immediate capitulation on the part of the offender--who would then abandon the painting, or in some cases, burn it along with the refuse. In fact, as I recall, the Tortoise, for several months after our arrival together at the villa, was repeatedly destroying his work under such circumstances. For while I was able to settle easily enough into the way of things there, my companion would again and again produce work displaying elements clearly contrary to our teacher's principles, and I remember many times pleading to my new colleagues on his behalf, explaining that he was not intentionally being disloyal to Mori-san. Often during those early days, the Tortoise would approach me with a distressed air and lead me off to see some half-completed work of his, saying in a low voice: "Ono-san, please tell me, is this as our teacher would do it?" And at times, even I became exasperated to discover he had unwittingly employed yet some other obviously offensive element. For it was not as though Mori-san's priorities were at all hard to grasp. The label, "the modern Utamaro", was often applied to our teacher in those days, and although this was a title conferred all too readily then on any competent artist who specialised in portraying pleasure district women, it tends to sum up Mori-san's concerns rather well. For Mori-san was consciously trying to "modernise" the Utamaro tradition; in many of his most notable paintings--"Tying a Dance Drum", say, or "After a Bath"--the woman is seen from the back in classic Utamaro fashion. Various other such classic features recur in his work: the woman holding a towel to her face, the woman combing out her long hair. And Mori-san made extensive use of the traditional device of expressing emotion through the textiles which the woman holds or wears rather than through the look on her face. But at the same time, his work was full of European influences, which the more staunch admirers of Utamaro would have regarded as iconoclastic; he had, for instance, long abandoned the use of the traditional dark outline to define his shapes, preferring instead the Western use of blocks of colour, with light and shade to create a three-dimensional appearance. And no doubt, he had taken his cue from the Europeans in what was his most central concern: the use of subdued colours. Mori-san's wish was to evoke a certain melancholy, nocturnal atmosphere around his women, and throughout the years I studied under him, he experimented extensively with colours in an attempt to capture the feel of lantern light. Because of this, it was something of a hallmark of Mori-san's work that a lantern would always figure somewhere in the picture, by implication if not in actuality. It was perhaps typical of the Tortoise's slowness in grasping the essentials of Mori-san's art that even after a year at the villa, he was using colours that created quite the wrong effect, then wondering why he was again being accused of disloyalty when he had remembered to include a lantern in his composition. For all my pleadings, the likes of Sasaki had little patience for the Tortoise's difficulties and at times the atmosphere threatened to become as hostile for my companion as any he had experienced at Master Takeda's firm. And then--I believe it was some time during our second year at the villa--a change came over Sasaki, a change that was to lead to his suffering hostility of an altogether harsher and darker nature than anything he had ever orchestrated against the Tortoise. One supposes all groups of pupils tend to have a leader figure--someone whose abilities the teacher has singled out as an example for the others to follow. And it is this leading pupil, by virtue of his having the strongest grasp of his teacher's ideas, who will tend to function, as did Sasaki, as the main interpreter of those ideas to the less able or less experienced pupils. But by the same token, it is this same leading pupil who is most likely to see shortcomings in the teacher's work, or else develop views of his own divergent from those of his teacher. In theory, of course, a good teacher should accept this tendency--indeed, welcome it as a sign that he has brought his pupil to a point of maturity. In practice, however, the emotions involved can be quite complicated. Sometimes, when one has nurtured a gifted pupil long and hard, it is difficult to see any such maturing of talent as anything other than treachery, and some regrettable situations are apt to arise. Certainly, what we did to Sasaki following his dispute with our teacher was quite unwarranted, and there seems little to be gained in my recalling such things here. I do, however, have some vivid recollections of that night when Sasaki finally left us. Most of us had already turned in. I was myself lying awake in the darkness in one of those dilapidated rooms, when I heard Sasaki's voice calling to someone a little way down the veranda. He seemed to receive no answer from whoever it was he was addressing, and eventually there came the sounds of a screen sliding shut and Sasaki's footsteps coming nearer. I heard him stop at another room and say something, but again he seemed to be met only with silence. His footsteps came still closer, then I heard him slide open the screen of the room next to mine. "You and I have been good friends for many years," I heard him say. "Won't you at least speak to me?" There was no response from the person he had addressed. Then Sasaki said: "Won't you just tell me where the paintings are?" There was still no response. But as I lay there in the darkness, I could hear the sound of rats scuttling under the floorboards of that neighbouring room, and it seemed to me this noise was some sort of reply. "If you find them so offensive," Sasaki's voice continued, "there's no sense in your keeping them. But they happen to mean a great deal to me at this moment. I wish to take them with me, wherever it is I"m going. I"ve nothing else to take with me." Again, there came the scuttling noise of rats in reply, then a long silence. Indeed, the silence went on for so long, I thought perhaps Sasaki had walked off into the darkness and I had failed to hear him. But then I heard him say again: "These past few days, the others have done some terrible things to me. But what has hurt me the most has been your refusal to give me even one word of comfort." There was another silence. Then Sasaki said: "Won't you even look at me now and wish me well?" Eventually, I heard the screen slide shut, and the sounds of Sasaki stepping down from the veranda and walking away across the yard.

After his departure, Sasaki was hardly mentioned at the villa and on the few occasions he was, he tended to be referred to simply as "the traitor". Indeed, I am reminded of just how much Sasaki's memory was prone to cause offence amongst us when I recall what occurred once or twice during those slanging contests we often indulged in. On warmer days, because we tended to leave the screens of our rooms wide open, several of us congregating in a room might catch sight of another group similarly gathered on the opposite wing. This situation would soon lead to someone calling out across the yard a witty provocation, and before long, both groups would be assembled out on their respective verandas, shouting insults across at each other. This behaviour may sound absurd when I recount it, but there was something about the architecture of the villa and the echoing acoustics it produced when one shouted from one wing to another, that somehow encouraged us to indulge in these childish contests. The insults could be far-ranging--making fun of someone's manly prowess, say, or of a painting someone had just completed--but for the most part were devoid of any intent to wound, and I recall many highly amusing exchanges which had both sides red with laughter. Indeed, by and large, my memories of these exchanges sum up well enough the competitive yet family-like intimacy we enjoyed during those years at the villa. And yet, when once or twice Sasaki's name was invoked during the course of these insults, things suddenly got out of hand, with colleagues abandoning boundaries and actually scrapping in the yard. It did not take us long to learn that to compare someone to "the traitor", even in fun, was never likely to be received in good humour. You may gather from such recollections that our devotion to our teacher and to his principles was fierce and total. And it is easy with hindsight--once the shortcomings of an influence have become obvious--to be critical of a teacher who fosters such a climate. But then again, anyone who has held ambitions on a grand scale, anyone who has been in a position to achieve something large and has felt the need to impart his ideas as thoroughly as possible, will have some sympathy for the way Mori-san conducted things. For though it may seem a little foolish now in the light of what became of his career, it was Mori-san's wish at that time to do nothing less than change fundamentally the identity of painting as practised in our city. It was with no less a goal in mind that he devoted so much of his time and wealth to the nurturing of pupils, and it is perhaps important to remember this when making judgements concerning my former teacher. His influence over us was not, of course, confined merely to the realms of painting. We lived throughout those years almost entirely in accordance with his values and lifestyle, and this entailed spending much time exploring the city's "floating world"--the night-time world of pleasure, entertainment and drink which formed the backdrop for all our paintings. I always feel a certain nostalgia now in recalling the city centre as it was in those days; the streets were not so filled with the noise of traffic, and the factories had yet to take the fragrance of seasonal blossoms from the night air. A favourite haunt of ours was a small teahouse beside the canal in Kojima Street called "Water Lanterns"--for indeed, the lanterns of the establishment could be seen reflected in the canal as one approached. The proprietress was an old friend of Mori-san's, which ensured we always received generous treatment, and I recall some memorable nights there, singing and drinking with our hostesses. Our other regular haunt was an archery parlour in Nagata Street, where the proprietress never tired of reminding us how years before, when she had been working as a geisha in Akihara, Mori-san had used her as a model for a series of wood-block prints which had proved immensely popular. Some six or seven young women hosted that archery parlour and after a while we each had our own favourites with whom to exchange pipes and pass away the night. Neither was our merrymaking limited to these expeditions into the city. Mori-san seemed to have a never-ending line of acquaintances from the world of entertaining, and impoverished troupes of wandering actors, dancers and musicians were forever arriving at the villa to be greeted as long-lost friends. Large quantities of liquor would then be produced, our visitors would sing and dance through the night, and before long someone would have to be sent out to awaken the wine seller at the nearest village for replenishments. One regular visitor of those days was a story-teller called Maki, a fat jolly man who could reduce us all to helpless laughter one moment and tears of sadness the next with his renderings of the old tales. Years later, I came across Maki a few times at the Migi-Hidari, and we would reminisce with some amazement about those nights at the villa. Maki was convinced he remembered many of those parties continuing straight through one night, through the following day and into a second night. Although I could not be so certain of this, I had to admit to recollections of Mori-san's villa in the daytime, littered everywhere with sleeping or exhausted bodies, some of them collapsed out in the yard with the sun beating down on them. I have, however, a more vivid memory concerning one such night. I can recall walking alone across the central yard, grateful for the fresh night air, having for a moment escaped the revellings. I remember I walked over to the entrance of the storeroom, and before going in, glanced back across the yard towards the room where my companions and our visitors were entertaining each other. I could see numerous silhouettes dancing behind the paper screens, and a singer's voice came drifting out through the night to me. I had made my way to the storeroom because it was one of the few places in the villa where there was a chance of remaining undisturbed for any length of time. I imagine in days gone by, when the villa had housed guards and retainers, the room had been used for storing weapons and armour. But when I stepped inside that night and lit the lantern hanging above the door, I found the floor so cluttered with every sort of object it was impossible to cross it without hopping from space to space; everywhere were stacks of old canvasses tied together with rope, broken easels, all manner of pots and jars with brushes or sticks protruding. I negotiated my way to a clearing on the floor and sat down. The lantern above the door, I noticed, was causing the objects around me to throw exaggerated shadows; it was an eerie effect, as though I were sitting in some grotesque miniature cemetery. I suppose I must have become quite lost in my broodings, for I recall being startled by the sound of the storeroom door sliding open. I looked up to see Mori-san in the doorway and said hurriedly: "Good evening, Sensei." Possibly the lantern above the door did not give sufficient light to illuminate my part of the room, or perhaps it was simply that my face was in shadow. In any case, Mori-san peered forward and asked: "Who is that? Ono?" "Indeed, Sensei." He continued to peer forward for a moment. Then, taking the lantern down from the beam and holding it out before him, he began to make his way towards me, stepping carefully through the objects on the floor. As he did so, the lantern in his hand caused shadows to move all around us. I hastened to clear a space for him, but before I could do so, Mori-san had seated himself a little way away on an old wooden chest. He gave a sigh and said: "I stepped out for a little fresh air, and I saw this light on in here. Darkness everywhere, except this one light. And I thought to myself, now that storeroom's hardly a place for lovers to be hiding away. Whoever's in there must be in a lonely mood." q suppose I must have been sitting here in a dream, Sensei. I had no intention of remaining here so long." He had placed the lantern on the floor beside him, so that from where I sat, I could see only his silhouette. "One of those dancing girls appeared very taken with you earlier," he said. "She'll be disappointed to find you"ve vanished now the night's here." "I didn't mean to appear rude to our guests, Sensei. Like yourself, I simply came out for some fresh air." We were silent for a moment. Across the yard, our companions could be heard singing and clapping their hands in time. "Well, Ono," Mori-san said eventually, "what do you make of my old friend Gisaburo? Quite a character." "Indeed, Sensei. He seems a most affable gentleman." "He may be dressed in rags these days, but he was once quite a celebrity. And as he showed us tonight, he still has much of his old skill left." "Indeed." "So then, Ono. What is it that worries you?" "Worries me, Sensei? Why, nothing at all." "Can it be that you find something a little offensive about old Gisaburo?" "Not at all, Sensei." I laughed self-consciously. "Why, not at all. A most charming gentleman." For a little time after that, we talked of other matters, of anything which came to mind. But when Mori-san had turned the conversation back once more to my "worries", when it became clear he was prepared to sit there waiting until I unburdened myself, I finally said: "Gisaburo-san does indeed appear to be the most goodhearted gentleman. He and his dancers have been most kind to entertain us. But then I cannot help thinking, Sensei, we have been visited by their like so often these past few months." Mori-san gave no reply, so I continued: "Forgive me, Sensei, I mean no disrespect to Gisaburo-san and his friends. But at times I am a little puzzled. I am puzzled that we artists should be devoting so much of our time enjoying the company of those like Gisaburo-san." I believe it was around this point that my teacher rose to his feet and, lantern in hand, made his way across the floor towards the back wall of the storeroom. The wall had previously been in darkness, but as he held the lantern up to it, three wood-block prints, hung one below the other, became sharply illuminated. Each of these portrayed a geisha adjusting her coiffure, each seated on the floor and viewed from the back. Mori-san studied the pictures for a few moments, moving the lantern from one to the next. Then he shook his head and muttered to himself: "Fatally flawed. Fatally flawed by trivial concerns." A few seconds later, he added without turning from the pictures: "But one always feels affection for one's early works. Perhaps you'll feel the same one day for the work you"ve done here." Then he shook his head again, saying: "But these are all fatally flawed, Ono." "I cannot agree, Sensei," I said. "I think those prints are marvellous examples of how an artist's talent can transcend the limitations of a particular style. I"ve often thought it a great shame Sensei's early prints should be confined to such rooms as these. Surely they should be open to display along with his paintings." Mori-san remained absorbed by his pictures. "Fatally flawed," he repeated. "But I suppose I was very young." He moved his lantern again, causing one picture to fade into shadow and another to appear. Then he said: "These are all scenes from a certain geisha house in Honcho. A very wellregarded one in my younger days. Gisaburo and I often used to visit such places together." Then after a moment or two, he said again: "These are fatally flawed, Ono." "But Sensei, I cannot see what faults even the most discerning eye would see in these prints." He continued to study the pictures for a few moments more, then began to come back across the room. It seemed to me that he took an inordinate amount of time negotiating his way through the objects on the floor; at times, I would hear him mumbling to himself and the sound of his feet pushing away a jar or box. Indeed, I once or twice thought Mori-san was actually searching for something--perhaps more of his early prints--amidst the chaotic piles, but eventually he seated himself back on the old wooden chest and drew a sigh. After a few further moments of silence, he said: "Gisaburo is an unhappy man. He's had a sad life. His talent has gone to ruin. Those he once loved have long since died or deserted him. Even in our younger days, he was already a lonely, sad character." Mori-san paused a moment. Then he went on: "But then sometimes we used to drink and enjoy ourselves with the women of the pleasure quarters, and Gisaburo would become happy. Those women would tell him all the things he wanted to hear, and for the night anyway, he"d be able to believe them. Once the morning came, of course, he was too intelligent a man to go on believing such things. But Gisaburo didn't value those nights any the less for that. The best things, he always used to say, are put together of a night and vanish with the morning. What people call the floating world, Ono, was a world Gisaburo knew how to value." Mori-san paused again. As before, I could see his form only in silhouette, but it was my impression he was listening to the sounds of the merrymaking from across the yard. Then he said: "He's older and sadder now, but he's changed little in many respects. Tonight he's happy, just as he used to be in those pleasure houses." He drew a long breath, as though he were smoking tobacco. Then he went on: "The finest, most fragile beauty an artist can hope to capture drifts within those pleasure houses after dark. And on nights like these, Ono, some of that beauty drifts into our own quarters here. But as for those pictures up there, they don't even hint at these transitory, illusory qualities. They"re deeply flawed, Ono." "But Sensei, to my eyes, those prints suggest most impressively these very things." "I was very young when I prepared those prints. I suspect the reason I couldn't celebrate the floating world was that I couldn't bring myself to believe in its worth. Young men are often guilt-ridden about pleasure, and I suppose I was no different. I suppose I thought that to pass away one's time in such places, to spend one's skills celebrating things so intangible and transient, I suppose I thought it all rather wasteful, all rather decadent. It's hard to appreciate the beauty of a world when one doubts its very validity." I thought about this, then said: "Indeed, Sensei, I admit what you say may well apply in respect to my own work. I will do all I can to put matters right." Mori-san appeared not to hear me. "But I"ve long since lost all such doubts, Ono," he continued. "When I am an old man, when I look back over my life and see I have devoted it to the task of capturing the unique beauty of that world, I believe I will be well satisfied. And no man will make me believe I"ve wasted my time." It is possible, of course, that Mori-san did not use those exact words. Indeed, on reflection, such phrases sound