An Artist of the Floating World (16 page)

did not pause in his painting. "To tell you the truth, Ono-san," he said, "someone in my humble position is always trying new approaches. But over this past year, I believe I"m beginning to find the right path at last. You see, Ono-san, I"ve noticed Mori-san looking at my work more and more closely this past year. I know he's pleased with me. Who knows, sometime in the future, I may even be permitted to exhibit alongside yourself and Mori-san." Then at last he looked across to me and laughed selfconsciously. "Forgive me, Ono-san. Just a fantasy to keep me persevering." I decided to let the matter drop. I had intended to try again at some later date to draw my friend into my confidence, but as it turned out, I was pre-empted by events. It was a sunny morning a few days after the conversation I have just recounted, when I stepped into the old kitchen to discover the Tortoise standing up on the platform at the back of that barn-like building, staring towards me. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the shade after the brightness of the morning outside, but I soon noticed the guarded, almost alarmed expression he was wearing; indeed, there was something in the way he raised an arm awkwardly towards his chest before letting it fall again that suggested he expected me to attack him. He had made no attempt to set up his easel or otherwise prepare for the day's work, and when I greeted him he remained silent. I came nearer and asked: "Is something wrong?" "Ono-san..." he muttered, but said no more. Then as I came up to the platform, he looked nervously to his left. I followed his gaze to my unfinished painting, covered over and stacked faced against the wall. The Tortoise gestured nervously towards it and said: "Ono-san, is this a joke of yours?" "No, Tortoise," I said, climbing up on to the platform. "It's no joke at all." I walked over to the painting, pulled off the drapes and turned it around to face us. The Tortoise immediately averted his eyes. "My friend," I said, "you were once brave enough to listen to me and we took together an important step in our careers. I"d ask you now to consider taking another step forward with me." The Tortoise continued to hold his face away. He said: "Ono-san, is our teacher aware of this painting?" "No, not yet. But I suppose I may as well show it to him. From now on, I intend to always paint along these lines. Tortoise, look at my painting. Let me explain to you what I"m trying to do. Then perhaps we can again take an important step forward together." At last he turned to look at me. "Ono-san," he said, in a near whisper, "you are a traitor. Now please excuse me." With that, he hurried out of the building. The painting which had so upset the Tortoise was one entitled "Complacency", and although it did not remain in my possession for long, such was my investment in it at that time that its details have stayed imprinted on my memory; indeed, had I the desire to do so, I feel I could quite accurately recreate that painting today. The inspiration behind it had been a small scene I had witnessed some weeks previously, something I had seen while out walking with Matsuda. We were, I recall, on our way to meet some of Matsuda's colleagues from the Okada-Shingen Society to whom he wished to introduce me. It was towards the end of summer; the hottest days were past, but I can recall following Matsuda's steady stride along the steel bridge at Nishizuru, mopping the sweat from my face and wishing my companion would walk more slowly. Matsuda was dressed that day in an elegant white summer jacket and, as ever, wore his hat slanted down stylishly. For all his pace, his strides had an effortless quality with no suggestion of hurry. And when he paused, half-way across the bridge, I saw he did not seem even to be suffering from the heat. "You get an interesting view from up here," he remarked. "You agree, Ono?" The view below us was framed by two factory plants looming one to our right, the other to our left. Wedged in between was a dense muddle of roofs, some of the cheap shingled variety, others improvised out of corrugated metals. The Nishizuru district still has today a certain reputation as a deprived area, but in those days, things were infinitely worse. Viewed from the bridge, a stranger may well have assumed that community to be some derelict site half-way to demolition were it not for the many small figures, visible on closer inspection, moving busily around the houses like ants swarming around stones. "Look down there, Ono," Matsuda said. "There are more and more places in our city like this. Only two or three years ago, this was not such a bad place. But now it's growing into a shanty district. More and more people become poor, Ono, and they are obliged to leave their houses in the countryside to join their fellow sufferers in places like this." "How terrible," I said. "It makes one want to do something for them." Matsuda smiled at me--one of his superior smiles which always made me feel uncomfortable and foolish. "Wellmeaning sentiments," he said, turning back to the view. "We all utter them. In every walk of life. Meanwhile, places like these grow everywhere like a bad fungus. Take a deep breath, Ono. Even from here, you can smell the sewage." "I"d noticed an odour. Is it really coming from down there?" Matsuda did not reply, but continued to look down at that shanty community with a strange smile on his face. Then he said: "Politicians and businessmen rarely see places like this. At least if they do, they stand at a safe distance, as we are now. I doubt if many politicians or businessmen have taken a walk down there. Come to that, I doubt if many artists have either." Noticing the challenge in his voice, I said: "I wouldn't object if it won't make us late for our appointment." "On the contrary, we will save ourselves a kilometre or two by cutting through down there." Matsuda had been correct in supposing the odour derived from the sewers of that community. As we climbed down to the foot of the steel bridge and began making our way through a series of narrow alleys, the smell grew ever stronger until it became quite nauseous. There was no longer a trace of wind to combat the heat, the only movement in the air around us being the perpetual buzzing of flies. Again, I found myself struggling to keep up with Matsuda's strides, but this time felt no desire for him to slow down. On either side of us were what might have been stalls at some marketplace, closed down for the day, but which in fact constituted individual households, partitioned from the alleyway sometimes only by a cloth curtain. Old people sat in some of the doorways, and as we went past gave interested, though never hostile, stares; small children appeared to be coming and going in all directions, while cats too seemed forever to be scurrying away from around our feet. We walked on, dodging blankets and washing hung out along coarse pieces of string; past crying babies, barking dogs and neighbours chatting amiably across the alleyway to each other, seemingly from behind closed curtains. After a while, I grew increasingly aware of the open-sewer ditches dug on either side of the narrow path we were walking. There were flies hovering all along their length and as I continued to follow Matsuda, I had the distinct feeling the space between the ditches was growing more and more narrow, until it was as though we were balancing along a fallen tree trunk. 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 povertystricken 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 through the 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 na� 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 na�t�ypical 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 na�. 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 na�." 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 na� 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 na� 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 na� 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 recognised 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 without 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?" "Well, as a matter of fact, Sensei, the others do appear anxious to avoid my company. Indeed, I have been unable to have a single conversation with any of them over these past few days. When I enter a room, people go silent or else leave altogether." He made no comment on this, and when I glanced towards him, he appeared to be still absorbed by the setting sky. I was in the process of lighting another lantern when I heard him say: "Your paintings are presently in my possession. I"m sorry if I caused you alarm by taking them. It just so happened I had a little spare time the other day and thought it a good opportunity to catch up on your recent work. You appeared to be out somewhere at the time. I suppose I should have told you when you returned, Ono. My apologies." "Why, not at all, Sensei. I"m most grateful you should take such an interest in my work." "But it's only natural I should take interest. You are my most accomplished pupil. I have invested years nurturing your talent." "Of course, Sensei. I cannot begin to estimate what I owe you." Neither of us spoke for a few moments, while I continued to light lanterns. Then I paused and said: "I am very relieved no harm has come to my paintings. I should have known there was some simple explanation of this kind. I can now put my mind at rest." Mori-san said nothing to this, and from what I could make of his silhouette, he did not take his eyes from the view. It occurred to me he had not heard me, so I said a little more loudly: "I am glad I can put my mind at rest regarding the safety of my paintings." "Yes, Ono," Mori-san said, as though startled out of some far-away thoughts. "I had a little spare time on my hands. So I had someone go and fetch me your recent work." "It was foolish of me to have worried. I"m glad the paintings are safe." He did not speak for some time so that I again thought he had not heard me. But then he said: "I was a little surprised by what I saw. You seem to be exploring curious avenues." Of course, he may well not have used that precise phrase, "exploring curious avenues". For it occurs to me that expression was one I myself tended to use frequently in later years and it may well be that I am remembering my own words to Kuroda on that later occasion in that same pavilion. But then again, I believe Mori-san did at times refer to "exploring avenues"; in fact, this is probably another example of my inheriting a characteristic from my former teacher. In any case, I recall I did not respond other than to give a self-conscious laugh and reach for another lantern. Then I heard him saying: "it's no bad thing that a young artist experiment a little. Amongst other things, he is able to get some of his more superficial interests out of his system that way. Then he can return to more serious work with more commitment than ever." Then, after a pause, he muttered as though to himself: "No, it's no bad thing to experiment. It's all part of being young. It's no bad thing at all." "Sensei," I said, "I feel strongly that my recent work is the finest I have yet done." "it's no bad thing, no bad thing at all. But then again, one shouldn't spend too much time with such experiments. One can become like someone who travels too much. Best return to serious work before too long." I waited to see if he would say anything more. After a few moments, I said: "I was no doubt foolish to worry so much for the safety of those paintings. But you see, Sensei, I am more proud of them than anything else I have done. All the same, I should have guessed there would be some such simple explanation." Mori-san remained silent. When I glanced at him past the lantern I was lighting, it was difficult to tell whether he was pondering my words or thinking about something else altogether. There was a strange mixture of light in the pavilion as the sky continued to set and I lit more and more lanterns. But Mori-san's figure remained in silhouette, leaning against a post, his back to me. "Incidentally, Ono," he said, eventually, "I was told there were one or two other paintings you"ve completed recently that were not with those I have now." "Quite possibly, there are one or two I did not store with the others." "Ah. And no doubt these are the very paintings you are most fond of." I did not reply to this. Then Mori-san went on: "Perhaps when we return, Ono, you